


Sleeping with ghosts

by boybeaulieu



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Angst and Feels, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post-Break Up, solo singer!Neil, the Monsters play Placebo songs bc I said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-10-08 21:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17394038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boybeaulieu/pseuds/boybeaulieu
Summary: The fans like it, that’s what their marketing guys say. They say fans love the edge in his manic smile, the crazy that rises in his eyes and Andrew -Andrew can do nothing but laugh.orThe Band AU where Andrew and his Monsters learn how to deal with notoriety while performing for an emo, grunge crowd. But what kind of musician has never experienced heartbreak? Not even Andrew, apparently.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! So, here’s my take on the music au, I hope you’ll like it. The story won’t follow a chronological order, but on top of every paragraph there will be a date, don’t worry! Obviously, I recommend listening to the songs mentioned, but the lyrics relevant to the story will always be written -if they’re not, it means they’re not important.  
> Enjoy!

_June 2018_

Being back to numbness is not exactly a revelation, more of a failure. If Bee knew about the state he let himself fall back to, she’d have his head. Except, Bee is not here. Andrew is, though, standing on this stupid stage as he closes yet another stupid show with one of his stupid songs. Not that he cares, mind you. Thing is, Bee had even told him he should watch out for him, for that five feet monster with a silver tongue and eyes cut out of ice. Jesus, he can’t stop writing songs even in his own thoughts. Thing is, he didn’t listen which is -uncharacteristic, let’s say. Andrew Minyard has made a life out of listening, the fact that he decided to ignore the voice of reason is nothing but a dumb joke. 

“This is our last song,” he says into the mic, tone even “Every You Every Me.”

The first verse stings on his tongue, words that don’t belong to him anymore. When he wrote this (stupid) song, his notebook had been laying on _his_ naked back, his arm resting on the soft curve of _his_ naked ass and his eyes fixed on untamed, auburn curls. It’s not like he can repress the memories, Andrew does not forget. Not at all, not even a little bit. He does try to remember when it is that he started quoting nineties teenage movies, but he can’t. Ironic much, uh? When Kevin plays yet another insufferable note behind him, Andrew is reminded he has a concert to finish and a stupid song to sing. _Sucker love I always find someone to bruise and leave behind_ , guess he was wrong, it was him who was left behind this time. Maybe he should write about that, his label would certainly approve. What is better than an emo, grunge band getting even sadder? Not much, the money in Andrew’s bank account can attest to that. 

When the torture is over, when they’ve gathered some of the shit the fans threw on stage, when he is finally, finally slumped on a sofa backstage, Andrew feels this blanket of numbness and carelessness lift just a little bit. Backstage always does it for him, there is too much he has learnt to associate with it and a certain blue eyed boy nobody mentions anymore. Bee would be proud, she would rather Andrew tried to off himself from the pain than go back to not feeling at all. She is kind of right, he is well aware of it. He was well aware of her words even when he let himself base all his, well, not happiness but - _something_ , on Neil fucking Josten. A runner, a writer, a musician. He’s off to Europe singing awfully upbeat, bubbly pop songs now, while Andrew is busy allowing himself to be miserable one hour per day. Oh, how the tables turned. 

“Minyard, my man, I’ve been waiting for this concert the whole month!”

 _Jesus_. It’s Mike, their manager, the only person in this world who manages to be even more clueless than Ne- no, he’s not going there. Andrew makes a sound at the back of his throat, could be affirmative, could be questioning, who knows. Besides him, Nicky answers in his place, voice dripping with its usual excitement and the added post-show adrenaline. 

“It was great, we were great! A great end of the tour.” 

Well, _great_. 

“About that.” Uh-oh, something tells Andrew the following words won’t be something he wants to hear. “I know we said you’d get a break after this tour, but-“

“Nope.” Interrupts Andrew.

“You don’t even know what I want to say.” Complains Mike. He’s wearing a velvet suit, like it’s the seventies and he’s representing Led Zeppelin. His shirt is stained, probably coffee. 

“It’s still a no.” Smiles Andrew, sharp, all teeth and no joy whatsoever. He’s doing exactly that, on the cover of their first album. Smiling like crazy, maniac, in black and white though, the label thought it would be _edgy_. 

“What did you want to say?” Intervenes Aaron, ever diplomatic his dear brother. It’s probably thanks to him that they got their deal, the company needed insurance that there would be someone they could dialogue with and Nicky was too gullible, Kevin too much of a diva and Andrew, well, Andrew was Andrew. 

“Madison Square Garden is organising a charity concert in October and we were lucky enough to get invited. This is only your second album and you’d be playing alongside Beyonce, it’s an incredible opportunity.” 

Oh, Andrew thought it would be worse. 

“Plus, even your friend Neil Josten will be there.” 

And there it goes, his big, fat, giant ‘no way’. 

“We don’t say that name aloud around here.” Stage whispers Nicky. Mike looks quite exasperated but still hopeful, as if he hasn’t spent the last two years with them, as if he hasn’t learnt anything. 

“Guys, this is important. The proceeds will go to a children charity, they operate in many fields,” he throws a casual look at Andrew, “even the foster system.” 

There’s the catch, maybe Mike has learnt something in all this time. Still, Neil Josten’s presence is enough of a deterrent to make Andrew return Mike’s pleading gaze and shake his head no. That’s when the rest of the band cuts in. Right, he’s in a band, there are other people making decisions. 

“Andrew, it would be amazing for our career. The publicity comes at the perfect time for the next album’s release.”

“We haven’t even started working on the next album, Kevin.” Mocks Andrew.

“It’s fine, we just need one new song to perform in October, the rest can come with the timing we’ve already established.” Good, old Mike, always has an ace up his sleeve. They are all looking at him expectantly, Kevin with a frown, Nicky with his best pair of puppy eyes and Aaron -well, Aaron looks like he always does.

“Come on Andrew, the publicity!” 

“The fans!”

“The children...” says Aaron. Andrew simply stares at them. There is no way he is going anywhere Neil Josten might even breath the same air he’s breathing. No way. No, nein, njet. 

Fifteen minutes later, he’s singing a new contract. 

 

***

 _November_ _2017_

His white skin in bathed in pale, winter light. It’s morning, far too early to be awake, but it’s not like they went to sleep anyway. There is something oddly relaxing about this moment, odd because Andrew lives every day with muscles locked and clenched teeth. Here, on this too soft bed, as he lays his head on Neil’s candid skin, his limbs feel like water. He’s slipping, slipping and sloshing and falling. The anxiety that should come with that realisation is missing, this is a moment he will remember. That is not much, if you are Andrew Minyard, maybe what he means to say is that this is a moment he will want to remember. It’s very much expected, when inspiration strikes.

He stretches an arm, reaching blindly behind himself for his notebook. Their comfortable silence is broken by the rustling of sheets and paper, as he shuffles through half written songs and lonely sentences, left to be completed by someone else.

“What are you doing?” Asks Neil, his head rests pillowed on his arms on the mattress. He sounds mellow and his voice is a bit scratchy, Andrew is reminded that he has been shouting his name for the whole night. There is something undeniably hot in the thought of Neil being so responsive, so honest with his consent and his pleasure. It sets Andrew’s stomach on fire and he _wants_. It’s not something he has allowed himself for a long time, wanting. He can’t stop it now, though, and it scares him. It’s been a long time since he allowed himself that, too. Neil has changed a lot of things, though, and Andrew is not scared anymore. Not of this.

“Writing.” He says, plain simple. He sets his notebook on Neil’s smooth back, it’s one of the few parts of his body that doesn’t bare proof of what cruel cards life has dealt him. And it’s there, long, infinite, candid skin. One might think Andrew would write about that, they’re sadly mistaken.

“Tell me. I want to know.” He says, and he always does that, makes Andrew feel like he’s important. Like he needs his words, like he needs to understand the way Andrew’s perfectly arranged thoughts translate into paper. He is a writer as well, he should know that asking that of Andrew is presumptuous and invasive and Andrew doesn’t want to tell him no. So, he settles on the bed swinging an arm over Neil’s pretty ass and even playfully bites one cheek, just because he can. Above him, Neil laughs.

“My heart’s a tart, your body’s rent. My body’s broken, yours is bent.”

“Go on.”

“Carve your name into my arm, instead of stressed I lie here charmed.”

“And then?”

“Because there’s nothing else to do, every me and every you.”

His words spill over the paper, black ink smudging slightly as he lays his head on the notebook. As he whispers those words over and over again, as he whispers them into the curve of Neil’s back, into the dimples above his ass. He is never this languid and affectionate after sex, but today is different. After spending the most part of the night buried in Neil’s warm body, legs and arms wrapped around his torso, skin slick with sweat, there is just so much he can do prevent it from getting to his head. He needs his space, after, always, and this time was no exception. _Except_ , when he’d come back from the bathroom, Neil had looked at him as if he had all the answers in the world and Andrew’s skin had cracked and opened and he’d let himself fall back to bed. Neil had whispered a soft ‘yes or no’ and Andrew had curled around his body in response.

“Sucker love is heaven sent, you pucker up our passion’s spent.” It’s Neil, as if he’s just taken a tour of Andrew’s mind and stolen some of his thoughts just to bring them out in the open. Andrew’s chest hurts, in a way that he knows is good, a way he doesn’t want to be good. Maybe he does, though.

“Do you like it?” Asks Neil, as if he doesn’t already know Andrew does.

“I hate you.” He says, instead of answering. He doesn’t look at Neil’s face, but he can clearly picture his smile, the way he presses his lips together trying to suppress it. The way he always gives in and his teeth show, straight and white and Andrew doesn’t understand why some people are allowed to be so attractive.

Later, when they’re dressed and Andrew is smoking by the window and Neil is making himself a sandwich in the kitchen, he says:

“There’s a lot of new songs on the new album.” Andrew raises an eyebrow.

“That is the point of making a new album, Neil.” The truth is, he knows where this is going. He knows exactly what Neil means, that there are a lot of songs he hasn’t been mulling over since he was seventeen, a lot of songs that weren’t in the original plan. A lot of songs he’s written in the last two months, songs the company is going to get crazy over, trying to record them. Songs about Neil.

“Andrew.”

A deep breath, “yes, there are a lot of new songs and Every Me Every You is going to be one of them.”

“Is that what it’s called?” Asks Neil, all smile and crinkles around his eyes. Andrew hates him. So. Much.

“I just said that, didn’t I?”

“So, new as in Space Monkey and even Post Blue?” He says, smug like only Neil can be. It’s infuriating.

“New as in we’re covering Daddy Cool by Boney M, but yes, even those two.”

Neil bursts out laughing, then, and Andrew will never admit it out loud but something in his chest stirs and, suddenly, he feels proud. He did that, he made Neil laugh like that. Jesus, sometimes he wonders why a part of his brain is still clinging to his teenage years, especially when he writes shit like _you’re beautiful and so blasé._

“How is your album coming along?”

Neil’s expression softens, but his eyes are still bright. They always are, like a fucking Bonnie Tyler song. It is no secret Neil is a talented musician, with his piano and his voice and his songs, but he’s not yet famous -not like the Monsters. Edgar Allan has signed him, though, and his album is going to be released in two months if everything goes according to plan. They had some sort of fight about it, a few weeks before. Of course, Neil deserves every chance he can get to let the world discover his talent, still, every single label except for Edgar Allan would have been fine. Andrew learned that at his expanse, when Riko Moriyama found him in juvie and offered him a deal. When Andrew read the contract over and realised he would be jumping from one prison to another. When Kevin Day came running to him, tail between his legs and a broken hand. Neil knows very well what Andrew thinks about his deal with Edgar Allan, that’s why the subject is never really breached. This is the first time Andrew actively asks him about his album and it shows in the way Neil looks taken aback, but hopeful.

“It’s good, I went to the studio last week and they made me perform every song acoustic so they have an idea of how I sound without a support band. Tomorrow we’re choosing the tracks and we’ll start recording on Monday.”

Ha, that doesn’t surprise Andrew in the least.

“That’s a bit rushed.” He simply says. He told Neil what he thought and he decided to ignore every single warning, now it’s not Andrew’s problem anymore. Today was a good day, he doesn’t want to ruin it.

“Anyway,” he says, “which one should be a single?”

It’s a poor attempt at changing the topic, but Neil lets it slide. Weird, since he always seems to jump at the chance of a confrontation. Andrew would be lying if he said it didn’t catch his attention, at first.

“Save Your Soul, of course.”

And, well, that one is a hell of a song. When he heard it the first time, Neil had been playing it for Andrew and Andrew alone, at the piano of an unconsecrated church. Afterwards, Andrew had kissed him so hard and long that their lips had bruised.

“Good.” He says.

“I know, it’s your favourite.”

***

 _January_ _2017_

“And we’re closing with... Song to Say Goodbye, right?”

“Yes, Nicky, for hundredth time. We open with Meds, we close with Song to Say Goodbye.” Sighs Kevin.

There is always something in the air when Song to Say Goodbye is mentioned, Andrew always makes it a point to look straight at Aaron, and Aaron always makes it a point to avoid his eyes. Critics had a field day with that one, digging into Andrew and Aaron’s past was easier than expected. It’s not like the trial was public, but the whole murder-to-avenge-my-brother thing had ended up on the news anyway. No one bothered correcting them, because it was more of a murder-to-save-my-brother kind of thing. The Monsters are well aware that a big part of their success is due to the twins’ story, still, nobody expected Andrew to come up with that song. Nobody expected him to be so blunt and so honest and so mean, the song worked though. Oh, it worked indeed. They played it only twice, and it showed in the half-assed way it sounded on their demo. The fact that everyone interpreted half of it wrong didn’t matter, it still doesn’t. They can think what they want of Andrew, if those thoughts hadn’t ended up on paper they would have ended up on his skin, dripping blood.

(Then, Aaron wrote Running Up That Hill and Andrew left mid-rehearsal, but that is another story.)

On their shiny, new album, though, Song to Say Goodbye sounds good. Too good. Of course, it’s the most talked about track, the most rumoured about, actually. Starting to play it again was a hardship, closing their first concert with it is going to be a disaster. Andrew can’t wait. He is already high as a kite, it’s the only way he can make it on stage, the only way the others and the label can get him to be an active part of the band, he’s only the lead singer, after all. The fans like it, that’s what their marketing guys say. They say fans love the edge in his manic smile, the crazy that rises in his eyes and Andrew -Andrew can do nothing but laugh. Of course, the fans have never seen that smile live, the Monsters have yet to perform their first concert. It was a risk, signing a band of misfits who had only ever played in their garage, but Kevin Day was with them and nobody turned down Kevin Day.

 Andrew is high, though, so high that his smile never falters. Not for the whole concert. They step on stage and the crowd goes wild. They know that, against all odds, their album has been extremely successful but this -this Andrew didn’t exactly expect. It only serves to make him smile harder and the fans notice, and they go even wilder.

“Hello there.” He says into the mic, his voice echoes at first, but then gets lost to the screams and hoops of the crowd. Alright, then. Andrew takes his guitar in hand and makes to play the first note.

“Wait, wait-“ It’s Kevin, ruining all his fun. He can’t even manage a scowl as he turns to Kevin, who’s looking at him as if he did something wrong. Oh, maybe he should wait for the others.

“We’re the Monsters.” Says Kevin, then he waits for the crowd to quiet down once again. “Our first song is called Meds.”

Andrew snickers at that, right into the microphone and the sound is amplified. Alright, maybe _that_ is the moment the crowd goes wild. Priceless.

Now, they can finally play. Andrew’s guitar is electrifying, he can see the sound waves rolling over those extended arms and those sweaty bodies jumping up and down. The lights are red and blue. They are blinding and Andrew has never felt so fucking numb, he’s numb to it all. He doesn’t register the warmth of the lights or the screams of the crowd, he can only feel his fingers sliding over the strings of his guitar, the microphone brushing against his lips as he sings.

_I was confused by the powers that be_

_Forgetting names and faces_

_Passers by were looking at me_

_As if they could erase it_

He’s flying high, higher than ever and all these people are only spurring him on, he looks to his right and sees Nicky and his bass moving all over the place, behind him Aaron is the one who keeps them all together, who keeps them on time and synchronised.

_Baby, did you forget to take your meds?_

_Baby, did you forget to take your meds?_  

Oh, Kevin, always has his back. Or is it the other way around? Andrew smiles around those thoughts and he smiles around his words and people cheer as if they love him for it. As if they love them all, as if they know them. These songs, they don’t know anything about these songs and, still, they sing them back to Andrew like they come from their own souls. 

Everything is over in the blink of an eye, Andrew guesses if he was less of himself he wouldn’t remember the most of it. After their encore and after they’re called back onstage for one last song ( _to say goodbye, right?_ Andrew laughs, the others don’t), they finally make it backstage and Andrew’s crash is the worst thing he’s ever experienced. No, that is not true, but he’d like it to be. He dry heaves in front of the whole crew, into a bucket provided by dear Mike. He looks pretty scandalised, guess he’ll have to learn a thing or two. The smile has not quite yet disappeared from his face and he knows how he must look right know, lips stretched as he vomits his guts, laughing. Hysterical.

“Come on, Andrew, get up. Here you go.”

Nicky has an arm around him as he picks him up from the floor and hauls him onto a chair. Andrew wants to shake his hands off, he wants to scratch at his skin until he stops fucking touching him -but he can’t, he can’t really speak, right now, he can’t really move. Nicky, though... as soon as he dumps Andrew on the chair, he retrieves his hands as if burned, takes a few steps back and puts his arms behind his back. Uh.

“Not even in the top charts and they’re already junkies.” Mutters some technician. Andrew ignores him as he does everyone else, he has other things to worry about right now. Like the fact that his nausea is starting up again or that his head is pounding as if a high school band is marching right on his brain. He can’t ignore Aaron, though, not when he stomps his way to that technician and pins him to wall by the collar of his shirt. It would be comical, Aaron five feet even threatening a grown man twice his size. It would be comical if it wasn’t so fucking unexpected.

“What the fuck did you say about my brother?” He snarls. The man looks on the verge of a laugh, but when Aaron draws his hand back for a punch he starts spitting out apologies. Andrew laughs in his stead.

“Down, boy.” He calls to his brother, as gleeful as ever. Aaron lets the man go and turns to Andrew.

“Fuck you.”

Ah, _now_ things are back to normal. A few security guys are dragging Aaron away by the arm, if Andrew had any more strength he would do something about it. As it is, he sits on his chair and figures if Aaron isn’t complaining, then it’s nothing worth fainting over.

“Well, it went as good as it could be expected.” Says Mike, a stretched smile on his face -more like a grimace. “Wymack won’t be disappointed.”

As if they care about what Wymack thinks. Maybe they should, after all he’s the one who signed them to Foxhole Records, but their contract is pretty... slack. Andrew wouldn’t have been on board if it hadn’t, no matter the fact that it was the only shot at notoriety they had. When Riko Moriyama had come to him all those years ago after watching a stupid YouTube video someone had posted without Andrew’s consent, he had been willing to close an eye on his criminal record. No other company would do the same, he had said, and Andrew had shrugged. It’s not like he longed to be a professional musician, he couldn’t care less about success. The songs he wrote, he wrote them for himself. But then Kevin had come to him, when he was out of juvie and staying in Columbia with Nicky and Aaron. As soon as he found out they sometimes played Andrew’s songs to pass the afternoons -Nicky at the bass, Aaron at the drums and Andrew at the guitar- he’d mentioned David Wymack. Nicky and Aaron had jumped right into the idea, of course, Andrew had tagged along because there was no music without him.

“I’m not.” Andrew turns around to see Wymack himself leaning on the door of their dressing room. “I make it a habit of coming to all of my acts’ first concerts.”

“Poor you.” Smiles Andrew, Wymack spares him an unimpressed look and keeps talking.

“I like what I saw, you’re going to be big.”

“It wasn’t even sold out.” Complains Kevin. Oh, to be used to playing Madison Square Garden.

“Continue to play like that and it will be.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_June_ _2018_

Foxhole Records throws them an end of the tour party, because that is what record companies do, says Wymack. They can’t even ditch it, well, they could, but Kevin is pretty insistent and Andrew doesn’t let his people go anywhere without him. He’s tired and strung out and since he stopped taking his drugs before shows he hasn’t been able to use the crash excuse. When he told Bee that, she laughed, it was no secret he would rather attend a thousand after parties than take another pill. There was a time when he used to long for that exact moment, that exact feeling. For the high. Now, he plays his concerts sober and if they are a bit more dull, it’s not anyone’s fucking business. At least, one good thing came out of this all self-deprecating shit.

The party is glamorous, as they always are. It is at some executive’s place, a penthouse overlooking Los Angeles, with fancy furniture and too many glass tables. It used to be a problem, it still is, because glamorous people like doing glamorous drugs and Andrew didn’t write Song to Say Goodbye for no reason. The first times, Andrew had to shadow him constantly, stay by his side and threaten every person who tried to approach him. Aaron started hating him for it soon enough, but he didn’t care. He’d rather have his brother alive, even if it cost him yet another cut tie. There is a girl now, there has been for some time, and Aaron thinks he doesn’t know. He thinks Andrew is stupid enough not to notice the way they look at each other form across the room. She’s a pretty thing who dances for fuck knows which one of the hundred pop stars at the party, Andrew knows and doesn’t do anything about it. For now. After two years and especially after New York, he lets Aaron wander alone and makes it a point to strum that one song every morning after. A reminder, a plea if you want, but Andrew Minyard doesn't beg. Not anymore, never again.

Kevin is off talking to some up and rising rapper and Nicky is blubbering on and on with whoever can stand him for more than a few minutes (Andrew can, but he doesn’t like saying it out loud). Andrew is sitting at the bar nursing a glass of whiskey, dry. After all this time people have learnt not to come up to him and try to make conversation, there is always someone new, though, who thinks they can get the monster to talk. It would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic. There is this particular brand of male celebrity, white and blond and tall with a smile too bright to be real, who saw Andrew on the cover of _Out_ magazine and is sure he’ll be up for a quick tumble in the room upstairs. Like he’s not so deeply closeted that they’d probably have to fuck with the lights off, like he wouldn’t ignore Andrew’s rules the first chance he got. With those, Andrew likes to keep his expression deadly and stare until they either call him a freak or make some sort of excuse like _your loss, baby, I bet you’re not even that good._ That particular line is the result of a rumour that has been around since Andrew came out first thing first after releasing the Monsters’ _Meds_ , apparently, Andrew is a great fuck. Apparently, Andrew would take anyone backstage and fuck their brains out. The sole idea makes him want to gag. Of course, it must be true if he decided to come out so nonchalantly. Of course, he must be easy after being introduced to sex at such a young age. There was one time when Wymack heard someone whisper those exact words and punched them straight in the face. Andrew got so high he passed out that night.

He has just spotted some guy wearing so much Fendi it looks ugly who’s about to make a bee line for him, when he senses someone taking a seat to his left. It’s Renee Walker.

“Hello, Andrew.”

“Where’s your better half?” Greets her Andrew.

“Couldn’t make it, we’re recording the new album so everyone is at the studio.” She orders a soda.

“Then why are you here?” If it were anyone else, Andrew wouldn’t bother making conversation.

“Someone has to make an appearance or people will start thinking we hate each other.” She says with a smile.

“Oh, no. We don’t want that.” Pouts Andrew, Renee gives a knowing, amused look.

“So, I heard you’re playing Madison Square in October. Are you exited?”

Andrew hums.

“I also heard Neil will be there.”

Oh, Renee, always a dirty player. He tells her exactly that. She shrugs and keeps quiet, waiting for him to talk. Renee is good with him, she knows when to give him time and when to press him, sheis also the only person he really talks to outside of the Monsters’ clique.

“I don’t care.” He says, at last. Of course, she knows that is a lie, but she has the decency to let it slide. Typical Renee.

“I think he does, though.” They both know what she really means.

“That is not my problem.” 

“You know, he’s really popular in Europe.”

“Why are we still talking about him?”

They keep quiet after that, then:

“They butchered his songs.” Spits Andrew, an anger in his chest he hasn’t allowed himself to feel until now. It’s gone as soon as it came, just a spark, but it’s enough to remind him of the scar Neil fucking Josten left on him.

“They’re not so bad.” Says Renee, small smile hesitant.

“ _Hit me baby one more time_? Really?” Mocks Andrew, her smile turns into a grimace. “I told him this would happen, he didn’t listen. It is not my problem.”

“We both know he values your opinion, there must be a reason why he signed that contract”

Andrew would like to believe it, but the truth is that Neil simply gave into his instincts. He’s always been a runner, _rabbit_ , had called him Andrew when he found out about Stefan and Chris and Alex. Neil did what he does best, he ran. He ran and he chose to run and Andrew can’t object his decision. Sometimes, when he’s laying in bed half asleep and tired and he just wants to let go for a little bit, he wonders why he couldn’t make him stay. What was missing, what he couldn’t give him. It’s stupid and self destructive, Bee told him as much, but he can’t exactly switch his brain off, can he? Neil ran off to Europe to play songs he didn’t write and be a person he promised he’d never be. There are pictures on the tabloids, blurry shots of him and someone who looks a lot like Riko Moriyama kissing in the far booth of a Parisian café. Nobody mentions those.

“Oh, Renee, there was a reason, he told me as much. It turns out it was just an excuse.”

“Andrew, you can’t really believe what those articles say.”

He swallows, counts to three.

“You saw the pictures, didn’t you?”

“I-“ Renee stops herself, Andrew gives her an I-told-you-so look. Lately, he doesn’t know what to think. He likes fooling himself into not recognising this burning feeling in his guts, but he knows, he _knows_ it’s jealousy. Because Andrew’s hands know what those curls feel like between his fingers and his mouth knows what those lips taste like and his eyes know what stories those scars tell. He wonders, does Riko shiver as he sidles up to him? At night, does he set his sweat on fire?

“We should meet up now that you’re going back to Columbia, maybe a spar or two.”

He’s brought back to reality by Renee’s voice, the fire has subsided but it doesn’t disappear. Never.

“It’s been a long time since I knocked you off your feet.” He says. Renee smiles.

 

***

 _June_ _2017_

Foxhole Records throws them an end of the tour party, because that is what record companies do, says Wymack. The Monster’s first after party or, well, the first after party in their honour. Tour is over, the last five dates sold out and an amount of money in their bank account that keeps growing steadily. There was a time when Aaron wanted to be a doctor, it was a dream well out of reach because the only thing they had was a house and paying even a shitty college tuition was pretty much out of the question. Vaguely, Andrew thinks that with all the money they have now Aaron could attend fucking Harvard. Except, he wouldn’t want to. Not when he’s had a taste of notoriety, of screaming fans and wanton groupies and the best parties in LA.

“I’d like to make a toast.” Comes Wymack’s booming voice. “To our new, surprisingly good,” a few laughs “favourite band, and a successful tour. To the Monsters.”

Everyone cheers and raises their glasses, Andrew downs a shot of whatever it is he’s been drinking for the past hour. They’re asked to go stand by Wymack and say a few words, Kevin sends Andrew what he likes to believe is a threatening look, Andrew just laughs. Nobody expects him to go up there anyway and even if he did, he wouldn’t say a single word.

“Aren’t you, like, the lead singer?”

Andrew turns around and stares. There is a boy standing in front of him, he can’t be much older than twenty and his face is scarred, badly. It doesn’t make him any less handsome.

“I am.” Says Andrew.

“Then why aren’t you up there?”

Andrew keeps staring, who the fuck is this kid? The boy laughs, it seems like Andrew asked that out loud. He has straight teeth, and his lips stretch prettily around a smile. Jesus fuck, not now.

“A fan.” He says. He could be, Andrew has never seen him before and, after a while, it’s always the same people attending this kind of parties. He has never even seen him on tv or on Foxhole Records wall, where they keep every act’s picture. He would notice a face like that. This boy looks as striking as he looks plain: his clothes are simple and dark, not too tight but not too baggy, his curls aren’t styled, but they’re not long enough to look unkempt. This is someone who doesn’t like to stand out, but he can’t do anything about his features. The ice blue of his eyes is mesmerising. _He’s born to mesmer._

“Aren’t you going to ask my name?” He says after Andrew keeps quiet far too long. He doesn’t seem upset, though, nor annoyed. He just stands there waiting on Andrew like he has all the time in the world, like he has nothing better to do. Andrew has met crazy fans, those who shout at him they love him and they’d do anything for him and that his songs saved their lives. This boy is not one of them.

“Should I?”

“I don’t know, do you want to?”

Yes, yes he wants to. What he does instead is shrug. The boy laughs again.

“I’m Neil.” When Andrew doesn’t say anything, his cheeks turn a pretty red colour and he bites his lip. “Look, I just wanted to say that your songs are amazing. You -you are amazing. Alright, bye.”

And with that, he turns around and makes to leave. Andrew... Andrew is a bit star struck. There is something about this boy - _Neil_ , something that’s making Andrew want to leave this stupid party, go back to his hotel room and his notebook and write a thousand songs. Fuck, since when did he become such a cliché?

“Wait.”

Neil stops, he turns back to Andrew and -Jesus, those eyes.

“What’s your favourite?”

“My favourite song? It’s like asking a writer what his favourite book is.”

Andrew shrugs for what feels like the hundredth time, but at least Neil takes a step forward. They’re close now, it’s definitely so that they won’t have to shout over the music, but for a split second Andrew hopes that’s just a stupid excuse.

“Song to Say Goodbye, it’s... well, it speaks for itself.”

Ah, so he’s one of those. He’s probably a reporter trying to dig a bit more into Andrew and Aaron’s relationship, someone trying to rise up the hierarchy with a scoop about the monster himself.

“You think I’ll tell you anything about my brother?” Snarls Andrew, all teeth and spite. Neil, on the other hand, looks quite taken aback.

“What? No, I just-“

“Save your pretty words and go back to the magazine you came from.” Interrupts him Andrew. He’s tired of this, he was warned people would learn anything there was to know about him and his family by Wymack, but knowing doesn’t make it less irritating.

“I’m not a reporter.” Bites back Neil, a fire in his words that Andrew didn’t expect. It’s just enough to make him listen.

“God, I’d never pry like that, who do you take me for?”

“One of the scum who makes a living out of other people’s tragedies. I don’t care if you write shit about me, but my brother is off limits.”

“Fuck you, as if half of that song isn’t about yourself.”

And -well, this escalated quickly. Andrew is left speechless, standing there with hard eyes he hopes will hide his surprise.

“Maybe people around here are blind enough not to see that, but you can’t tell me _you lying, trying waste of space_  is something you’d tell your brother, not even in a song. I’ve heard about you, about what he did for you.”

That is exactly everything Andrew needs to hear to turn his back and ditch this fucking party, leaving this sharp tongued Neil behind. Of course, as soon as Kevin sees him at the door, he forbids him from leaving.

“It’s our party, Andrew, you can’t just leave!”

The only place left for him to go is the roof. So, he sits there and smokes, one cigarette becomes two and two become three and, still, he can’t seem to calm down. At the beginning, he didn’t care what people thought of him, he didn’t mind being called monster if it kept everyone away. These days, though, he can’t say it doesn’t affect him at all. He still doesn’t care, especially when it’s strangers talking shit about him, but Song to Say Goodbye is a bit of a soft spot. Most of his words are a reminder of darker times, some of them even manage to reopen long healed scars. His forearms itch.

He’s been up here for twenty minutes when he hears the emergency door open. He doesn’t turn around, nor startles when a body settles beside him, he already knows who it is.

“Go away before I push you off.”

“I’m sorry. About before.” Neil looks sheepish, a bit hesitant even. “It’s -I’m not a fan of the press.”

“You,” says Andrew “have a big mouth.”

Neil laughs, for the third time that night Andrew has made someone laugh. It’s not something that happens everyday, or once a year.

“Who are you, Neil?” He asks, because he needs to know. Because this boy came out of nowhere and perfectly understood one of the most misinterpreted songs Andrew has ever written, he just waltzed right in and left Andrew speechless. This Neil is interesting. Something about his expression darkens at Andrew’s question, a touchy subject. This Neil is a philosopher, then.

“I’m here with Matt Boyd, he’s a friend.”

“That’s not what I asked.” What Andrew wants to know, is why this boy is here. Why he approached him, why he isn’t afraid of Andrew like every other person who doesn’t want to fuck him is. Maybe that is the answer, maybe Neil wants to fuck him and Andrew -Andrew wouldn’t be opposed to the idea. He used to hook up with Roland, back before tour when they were in Columbia. Then, one of his roadies showed some interest and proved capable of keeping his hands to himself and his mouth shut. It’s not like Andrew doesn’t do causal, in fact he only does casual. Neil, though, is not acting like someone who wants a one night stand or twenty.

“I’m a musician,” he says, at last, “or, well, I think I am.”

“Are you signed with Foxhole Records?” Andrew already knows he’s not.

“No, I -no.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I told you, Matt Boyd. He’s an old friend, I’ve been showing him some of my stuff and he said this could be an opportunity to make some connections.”

“Then you should be downstairs.”

Neil looks at him, long and uncomfortable. Then: “I think I’d rather be here.”

They spend the rest of the party there, on the roof smoking Andrew’s cigarettes. They don’t talk much, there are a lot of things Andrew wants to ask, but not tonight. Neil likes the silence to a certain point, every now and then he needs to make some sort of remark just to annoy him. If it wasn’t so out of character, Andrew would smile. But then Andrew’s phone rings and Kevin slurs at him to show his face because the party is over and they’re going back to the hotel. He suppresses a sigh a makes his way down, Neil hot on his heels. His Monsters (nobody should ever know he calls them his, in his mind) are waiting for him in a car, the house is almost empty, only a few people here and there saying their goodbyes. Here comes the hard part, then.

“So,” says Neil, hands in his pockets and lips pressed together. For a fleeting moment, Andrew thinks he’d like to see him blush once again. Just once. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

It takes Andrew a tenth of a second to make a decision. With a roll of his eyes and a pointed expression he extends a hand. Neil looks at him at it and then back at him, an inquisitive frown on his face. Really?

“Give me your phone, dumbass.”

That night, Andrew leaves the party with a new contact on his phone and a pretty blush stuck in his head.

 

***

 _May_ _2016_

This is one of the most stupid things Andrew has ever done. The fact that it’s going to be in vane doesn’t bother him in the slightest, it’s thinking about all the effort they had to put into this that gets to him. Kevin fucking Day, a demo and Foxhole Records. Sounds a bit like the beginning of a pun. He should have never offered Kevin protection, but what’s done is done; plus, Andrew never does anything without getting something in return. Kevin seems to believe this demo will be his answer, that he’ll uphold his end of the deal, but up until now Andrew isn’t exactly convinced.

Their demo is almost ready and, even if it wasn’t, Kevin is sure David Wymack would sign them anyway. Nobody refuses a deal with Kevin Day, after all, especially since he went off the grid after that one last, tragic concert in Austin. There’s speculation and rumours, of course, but no reporter or fan has spotted America’s favourite rockstar for three months. The press is still going wild, someone like Kevin Day is not easily forgotten. Andrew valued the risks, he knows associating with someone so famous could bring trouble, particularly if this someone is Riko Moriyama‘s target. What can Andrew say, he’s merciful like that. He also has to admit he’d seen where this all thing was going from the beginning, there was no way Kevin would barge in with his fucked up hand and his guitar, spot them playing rockstars and not take the chance. One day, Andrew’s sure he will regret his decision. For now, he has an announcement to make.

“I want one more song on that thing.” He says from his spot by the window, cigarette dangling from his fingers. The others -the Monsters, Andrew has to remind himself- look a bit surprised, he understands, he is surprised himself. The thing is, yes, most of the songs on their demo are Andrew’s, but he simply ripped the pages from his notebook and tossed them to Kevin, this is the extent of his participation. He has never actively expressed his opinion, his songs were already well thought-out and the details Kevin likes to obsess about were irrelevant to him. So, Andrew even saying something about this whole ordeal is pretty much a big deal.

“Alright, which one?” Asks Nicky, “Bionic?”

Before Andrew can talk, though, Kevin is already up and worrying.

“Wait, shouldn’t we have a say in this? The demo is very important, you don’t know how much a first impression can affect your whole career. Plus-“

“Shut up, Kevin, half of those songs are Andrew’s. We wouldn’t have a demo without him, if he wants one more song he can have it.”

Oh, how his brother is going to regret those words. It is odd, hearing him come to Andrew’s defence. Their relationship would be better if it was nonexistent, except. Except no, it wouldn’t. Not when finding each other again meant so much, not that Andrew will ever tell him that. In any case, Aaron will want to take all those pretty words back once he hears Andrew’s song. For once, Andrew wants to be selfish, he wants to think about himself and finally, finally let go of Song to Say Goodbye. It will either kill him or free him. He hopes it’s the latter, he used to hope it’d be the first.

“It’s a new song.” He says.

“Why didn’t you put it in with the others? I told you to give me everything you had.”

If it wasn’t a complete breach of their deal, Andrew would strangle Kevin.

“Shut up, Kevin.” Says Aaron, again.

Some people say it’s a ‘twin thing’, that feeling Andrew used to get when he was sure, oh so sure that somewhere, something was wrong. Andrew doesn’t believe it, he calls it common sense. Sometimes, though, like now, it feels like Aaron can measure exactly the importance of this moment. It gives him chills.

“Do you want to hear it, or should I record it by myself?”

“Of course we want to hear it, Andrew.” Smiles Nicky, offering him a guitar. He’s been imaging it played on piano, but his guitar will have to do. As he sits on a chair in this messy garage, its door wide open to let the sun and heat of North Carolina in, he can’t help but spare one last glance to Aaron. Maybe it’s some sort of warning, maybe it’s just a reflex. His brother returns his look, wary, and Andrew starts to sing.

_You are one of God’s mistakes_

_You crying, tragic waste of skin_

_I’m well aware of how it aches_

_And you still won’t let me in_

_Now I’m breaking down your door_

_To try and save your swollen face_

_Though I don’t like you anymore_

_You lying, trying waste of space_

He doesn’t let his eyes up, he can’t bring himself to. Andrew isn’t scared, he isn’t a cowering little boy anymore but this... this feels like being seven all over again. This feels like discovering Aaron’s addiction and locking him in that bathroom, like watching him go in and never come back out. Like breaking the door open and blowing air into his lungs are hearing Nicky frantically dialling 911. Like reading that one, impossibly real letter and looking up to Drake’s bared teeth.

_You were mother nature’s son_

_Someone to whom I could relate_

_Your needle and your damage done_

_Remains a sordid twist of face_

_Now I’m trying to wake you up_

_To pull you from the liquid sky_

_’Cause if I don’t we’ll both end up_

_With just your song to say goodbye_

Now he’s fourteen and he’s in juvie, now Aaron is sitting in front of him with bruises badly hidden by a thick layer of concealer. Aaron with Nicky and Nicky’s father, telling him their mother has passed. Aaron looking at him with fire behind his eyes because he left him, he ignored him and then he landed himself in juvie and now Aaron doesn’t have anyone. And Andrew -Andrew can’t talk, so he sits there and keeps quiet and lets Aaron spit out word after word. He sits there and thinks: he’s safe, he’s safe, he’s safe.

_Before our innocence was lost_

_You were always one of those_

_Blessed with lucky sevens_

_And a voice that made me cry_

_My oh my, it’s a song to say goodbye_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, sorry for the wait! This is a period of exams for me, so it will probably take me quite longer to post. Anyway, here’s a new chapter. Triggers for Drake and everything that comes with him!  
> Enjoy!

_July_ _2018_

The flashes are blinding, even with his sunglasses on. Stepping out of the car feels like going from a tiny, cool safe place, to a fucking hot, humid jungle. They might be the Monsters, but these people waving cameras and microphones and recorders are lions. Some of them like to throw insults around, like that one time someone called Nicky a faggot and Andrew punched him in the face. He made multiple covers, that month, the guy even tried to sue him but everyone knows people can be bought. Some more than others. From that time on, the slurs became non-existent, at least when Andrew was around. That doesn’t mean these people aren’t resourceful, oh how much they like to speculate and throw questions around. Shout them to Andrew’s face as if he’d answer, ever. It all started with Kevin, Andrew would like to say most his troubles started with that idiot, unfortunately that’s very much not true. This paparazzi thing, though, as much as it was expected, did start because of Kevin. He was already used to being mobbed and photographed even while grocery fucking shopping form his time with Edgar Allan, when the Monsters started gaining popularity he just couldn’t resist. There’s one thing that is bigger than Kevin’s stupidity and it’s his pride: of course, he couldn’t stand the thought of Riko not witnessing his rise from the ashes. It was subconscious, at first, Kevin was still too scared of him to admit it to himself, but that didn’t stop him from making a special call. The day of their first concert, Andrew woke up and found three men in his backyard, armed with cameras and waiting for him and his Monsters to get out. These days, it’s far less common than Andrew ever expected, being stalked and followed and photographed as soon as he steps out of his apartment. Still, today, in front of Foxhole Records Studio, the paparazzi’s presence is suffocating.

“Kevin! Andrew!”

“Hey, Andrew, how come you don’t smile anymore?”

“Aaron, is it true you’ve relapsed?”

They ignore them, as they always do. They keep walking and try to make it to the door, but there are so many that security has to intervene. Andrew hates this, every single minute of it. He hates the unavoidable, unwanted touches as he’s jostled agains the others, he hates the noise, he hates not being in control. It feels like losing himself, he can’t make sure his Monsters are all there, he can’t get the shouts to stop and everything is so overwhelming and-

“Andrew, did you know Neil Josten’s already replaced you?”

And he stops. Dead in his tracks. Andrew is going to kill him, whoever dared say anything about Neil is going to die with Andrew’s hands wrapped around his throat and that manic smile they oh so love imprinted behind his eyelids. He can’t even reach him, though, not with Paul the security guy dragging him by his sleeve to the door. He can’t do anything but throw that bastard one of his deadliest looks and hope he’ll piss himself. _I’m coming for you._

“God, that was crazy.” Sighs Nicky once they’re inside,

“Who the fuck allowed them so close to the studio, anyway?” Complains Aaron. Right on cue, Wymack makes his entrance.

“It’s a public space, the pavement.”

“I don’t give a fuck, they could have hurt us.”

It’s something Andrew would say, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t say anything because his mind is still on that street. _Did you know Neil Josten’s already replaced you?_  He does know that, he saw those pictures with his own eyes. In a moment of weakness, when he’d not been himself, when he’d felt like a normal person and not this cluster of walls and trauma, he even sent one text. The reply said: _I’m sorry, one day you’ll understand._  As if he would ever expect an apology, as if apologising means anything at all. Andrew doesn’t believe in forgiveness, or at least he didn’t use to. The truth is that right now, if Neil came back to him with a million sorrys falling from his lips, he wouldn’t spare him a single glance. Not after he left, without a single explanation. There was one, actually, it was a whole speech meant to dig deep and hurt where Andrew is most tender. It was bullshit. The real reason Neil left is still unknown to him, _that_ is why he doesn’t want to have a thing to do with him. The most fucked up result of this whole mess is that Andrew can’t stop writing, can’t stop composing and hearing music and words. It has always been therapeutic for him, writing, even when he wasn’t aware of the effect himself. Even before Bee explained it, even when he was twelve and drops of blood always stained his notebooks. Neil Josten is the last person he wants to think of and he can’t stop writing about him.

“Alright, it’s been one month,” says Wymack, “what did you come up with?”

They’re talking about the song for the charity concert, they’re in the same room they always are when choosing new songs for their albums. Everyone has their own position, their place. Andrew sits by the window, as he always does, staring at the concrete twelve floors down. He swallows.

“Andrew has been writing a lot.” Pipes up Nicky, as if he knows anything at all.

“You said you didn’t want something angsty.” He replies.

“But that’s the only stuff you write.”

“Exactly.”

He waits for them to catch the meaning of his words, a bit slow, uh. When Wymack does, he doesn’t look perturbed.

“Alright, no songs from Andrew for once. What do you others have?”

Andrew’s Monsters all stare at each other, then at him. He shrugs.

“This will be our first single from the new album, it means it has to be perfect and _that_ means it has to be Andrew’s.” Kevin, of course, so focused on his career that sometimes he forgets this band is a democracy. The thing is, Andrew is full of new songs, he has so many they could waste the entire morning choosing one. He also has a favourite, a page he tore off his notebook that sits safe and sound under his bed. The thing is, Aaron and Nicky and Kevin don’t want some post break-up, self-deprecating song and they made it more than clear. They either get Andrew, or their happy tune.

“Andrew just said you don’t want his songs.” Points out Wymack.

“We never said that!”

“That’s exactly what you did.” Says Andrew. There is a moment of silence and Andrew reveals in the awkwardness and the waves of guilt coming off of Kevin. Ah.

“We do have other songs.”

It’s Aaron. He probably does have something of his own, Andrew easily remembers the first time he admitted he’d been experimenting with tunes and words by himself. He also remembers leaving mid-session.

“But are they good enough to be a single? Come on, we all know they wouldn’t be on the same level as the others.” Butts in Kevin. There is another stretch of silence, Wymack is looking at them, bored and waiting. Andrew takes pity on him.

“I have one song.”

“Finally.” Sighs Wymack, as if he always knew the situation would go like this. Oh, David, so wise.

“Good, I hope you won’t disappoint.” Says Kevin

“I hope I won’t want to slit my wrists after the first chorus.” Mutters Aaron.

“I hope I won’t want drown myself after the first note.” Adds Nicky.

“By the way, what is it called?”

Andrew smiles.

“Exit Wounds.”

They all groan.

***

 _November_ _2017_

He tries to keep telling himself he doesn’t care. He tries, but for once he does really fucking care. They hadn’t had this kind of problem with their first album, most of the songs were Andrew’s and even though they were sad and upfront, the band had liked them just fine. They were coherent and they had a specific target and nobody had the courage to try and change Andrew’s words, yet. Now it’s different, though. A second album comes with certain standards and, apparently, Andrew isn’t meeting them.

“We can’t insert them all and I won’t play something so fucking _gay_.”

Andrew raises a brow, unimpressed. Beside him, Nicky’s face falls. It’s not unexpected, Aaron has always shown a particular distaste in Andrew’s relationships but he hardly believes Aaron has a problem with his sexuality. It’s more of a peculiar way of being protective over him, especially since Drake. At least, that’s what Bee says, it doesn’t make it less fucked up. It doesn’t make it hurt less, Nicky -sweet Nicky who wears his heart on his sleeve -is proof enough.

“Write your own songs, then.” Says Andrew.

“I did!”

Everyone is stunned into silence.

“You did?” Asks Wymack, always careful.

“Yes.” There’s a petulant quality to Aaron’s voice, combined with the frown on his face it makes him sound like a five year-old.

“Why didn’t you say anything, then?”

“Because I’m not sure I want my song on the album, especially if it’s like that.”

“Look, Aaron,” starts Wymack, “I agree that we can’t put all of Andrew’s new songs in this album, they’re simply too many. However, some of them are too good not to be inserted and you know it.”

“So I’m supposed to keep calm and quiet while we sing shit like,” at that, he clears his throat and speaks the next words in an attempt at imitating Andrew’s voice, “ _he’s born to mesmer, beside astride him, I die inside him_? I don’t want the whole fucking world to think we’re a bunch of faggots.”

“I hope you realise those slurs are not tolerated in my studio.”

Wymack sounds strict and angry enough to make Aaron look ashamed, cheeks tinted pink.

“If I can’t sing my songs, I’m not going to sing at all.” Says Andrew, simple as that.

“I don’t see the problem, Andrew came out as soon as we put out our first album, everyone already knows he’s gay.” It’s Nicky, naive as ever. He doesn’t get it, he doesn’t understand the way Aaron’s mind works. Neither does Andrew, not really, but their joint sessions with Bee are helping. The world Aaron has been raised in didn’t leave any space for an open mind, it taught him to mock those different from him and agree with the common mentality so as not to be targeted himself. Of course, those are not excuses. Andrew would very much like to punch him in the face the next time he says some stupid homophobic shit. Those aren’t excuses, but they help Andrew understand. Still, he is human. People call him a monster, they say he’s too apathetic off stage and too crazy on it. They say he’s dangerous and they like it, a bad boy with a tragic past and an edge to his smile. The label loves it almost as much, it doesn’t matter how many times Wymack tells him he wants to treat them like people, not investments; there’s always someone more powerful, higher up, someone who profits from the ‘tragic twins’ and the all too famous guitarist and the bassist who wears makeup. Andrew is still human, though, and he’s spent too much time under other people’s heels.

“I -I know that. I just-“

“You just what?” Cuts in Andrew. “You’re just too scared of what others will think? You’re just still a little boy hiding behind mommy’s skirt? What, you think I’m less of a man because I’m fucking one? Tell me.”

“No, Andrew I-“

“You think I’m a freak, that I’m not natural? Then I wasn’t natural even at seven, because that’s the first-“

“Stop! Andrew, fuck, stop it.”

He stops, because antagonising Aaron does have a purpose.

“Then, what is it?”

For once, his brother looks every inch the damned rockstar he pretends to be. There’s anger in his eyes and a pinch of desperation, dressed in black just like Andrew, only his armbands to distinguish them. Neil told him they are as different as day and night, that he can cast one look upon the twins and know which one is Andrew. That he would recognise him by touch, by smell alone. And people still wonder why he can’t stop writing songs about him. When Aaron finally masters the courage to speak up, he falls right into Andrew’s bait.

“I don’t like him, alright? I despise every fucking inch of him, I don’t trust him and I don’t trust his stories. I don’t believe a single moment of his oblivious act.”

That, Andrew already knew. Aaron and Neil’s hate for each other isn’t exactly a secret, what with the way Aaron acts as if he doesn’t exist and the lengths Neil goes to, to rile him up. Andrew doesn’t feel like playing referee. To be quite honest, Aaron has a point in all of this: Neil is made up of lies, he’s an entire personality built on them. What Aaron doesn’t realise is that Andrew knows, he knows about the running and about Mary, he knows about the scars and Nathaniel. A phoenix rising from the ashes, that’s what Neil Josten is.

“This is not the time or place for personal confrontations.” Says Wymack, “I don’t care what Aaron thinks, this band is a democracy and three out of four want Space Monkey, Post Blue and Every You Every Me on the album. That’s it.”

Of course, Aaron gives them all the silent treatment for the whole day. The drive back to their house is tense, Andrew keeps stealing glances at his brother from the review mirror and Aaron keeps scowling at him. Andrew’s lips stretch around that sharp smile of his, all teeth and an edge, at that Aaron looks away. Sometimes he does that, pretends he’s high and fucking crazy even when he’s not. Just because he can, just because he doesn’t feel like dealing with other people the way that’s expected of any normal person. Andrew’s not normal, though, is he? He kind of wants to turn the car around, leave his Monsters on the curb and drive straight to Neil and -fuck, this thing they have going on is getting to his head. He tells Neil it’s nothing, that _they_ are nothing, but he knows all too well that’s not true, he suspects Neil knows it too, when he smiles and nods and rolls his eyes, fondly. It’s been months since the first time Andrew kissed him in that church, even more since he met him at that stupid party. Their first tour and album gone, a new beginning. Now it’s time for a second and the launch is scheduled in a month and then there will be a tour. They’re not famous enough for a world tour, maybe a few dates in South America but that’s the most they can have. It’s fine, it really is; for a few moments, seven years ago, Andrew didn’t even think he’d make it to sixteen. Neil, however, has a lot of potential for an European crowd and that’s exactly what Riko says. It’s exactly bullshit, that’s what Andrew says. It doesn’t matter, though, it doesn’t matter what any of them thinks because what’s done is done and if Riko proves himself to be the crazy, fucked-up rat he is, they might end up in two different countries. Six time zones at best. Andrew doesn’t like thinking about it. He has other problems right now, like their recording session tomorrow afternoon and what a disaster it will be.

Twenty-four hours later Andrew decides that yes, indeed, this whole thing is a disaster. It’s not because of his songs, though. Oh, he wishes it would be about that. No, it’s Aaron’s one song that ruins every-fucking-thing. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it just makes him angry and confused and angry again because he hasn’t done everything he’s done just so that Aaron could say those things. Wish those things, even. But maybe, underneath it all, underneath the shock and the anger, he kind of understands. It starts with Aaron not saying a word about the songs they’re recording, not a single complaint, not even when they all have to sing back up during Andrew’s _I die inside him_ verse. Something is not right, even Kevin and Nicky are looking a bit concerned about Aaron’s quiet demeanour. It’s all explained once the recording session is over and he asks to play one of his songs.

“You said I had to say something, well here it is.”

“Alright,” replies Wymack “we’re listening.”

Once the album is released, Andrew will admit that the song is good, very good. As of now, he leaves mid-recording. Because what Aaron sings is:

_Is there so much hate for the ones we love?_

_Tell me, we both matter, don’t we?_

_You, it’s you and me_

_It’s you and me won’t be unhappy_

_And if only I could_

_I’d make a deal with god_

_And I’d get him to swap our place_

_Be running up that road_

_Be running up that hill_

_Be running up that building_

And Andrew just. Can’t. Stand. It.

***

 _February_ _2015_

He looks into the mirror, the image reflected there is odd. The suit doesn’t fit him, it’s too big and it shows. The bruises are long gone, but he still ghosts a hand over his temple, right were the bottle crashed. He’s lucky it didn’t blind him, that’s what the doctor at the hospital said. Andrew thought he wouldn’t remember, but his memory works even when he’s in too much of a shock to distinguish left from right. Only one thought in his mind: Aaron, Aaron, Aaron. Even now, that’s the only thing he can think about. He needs to do this right so that Aaron will be safe. This Betsy woman he’s been seeing since Thanksgiving told him he can use it as something to hold on, when he’ll have to speak in court. He doesn’t trust her, not yet, but she might be right.

Nicky knocks on his door, he doesn’t open it, doesn’t even say anything. It’s been a few strange months, but as odd as it sounds Nicky is the one who managed to deal with it all without making Andrew want to strangle him. As for Aaron, half the time he’s walking on eggshells, the other half he looks as if he wants to _talk_. Andrew thanks some kind of god he never tried to. Nicky, though, was a pleasant surprise. He’s been acting like the same old Nicky, far too chipper and enthusiastic to be someone Andrew wants to spend his whole day with, but he has stopped barging into Andrew’s room and trying to talk him out of his own head. If he ever looks at him with pity in those dark eyes, it’s so that Andrew doesn’t notice. It’s thoughtful, guesses Andrew, a word he came up with on one of his sessions with the therapist. She is an odd woman, but she has a thing for hot chocolate and Andrew is not going to complain about that. He might complain about this stupid suit, though. If it were for him, he’d walk in with his combat boots and skinny jeans on. It’s not for him, though, it’s for Aaron, for his brother. He still sees him at night, even after three months. He sees his bloody hands and his bloody face and that one cut on his forehead that isn’t there, even if it’s supposed to be. _Andrew_ , _Andrew_.

“Andrew!” Its Nicky, calling from downstairs. “We can’t be late.”

One last look at the mirror, ill-fitting suit and dead eyes. Dead. No, that’s one thing he won’t let himself be. With that thought in his mind, he exists the room. Downstairs, Aaron and Nicky are sitting at the kitchen table, Aaron looks exactly like him. Same suit, same face. He does look a bit green, though, Andrew can relate.

“You said we couldn’t be late.” He says.

“Right, right.”Answers Nicky, shooting to his feet. “Let’s go, Mrs. White is waiting for us at the tribunal.”

When they get there, Mrs. White is waiting for them indeed, on the steps to the tribunal. Walking to her feels like approaching a hanging post. She is the one who told him that if he wanted Aaron to have a chance at winning, he’d need to speak about Drake. Just that one last time wouldn’t be enough, not when Drake was a white, well respected marine. Not even slightly enough. They’ve seen him, Nicky and Aaron and Luther. They have all seen him and, still, it’s. Not. Enough. So, he’ll have to tell it all, from the first time Drake looked at him with hunger in his wicked eyes to the last time he lay hands on him, teeth biting so hard they drew blood and promises far too real to be ignored. _Twins, a perfect match in my bed_. Andrew’s lunch threatens to represent itself, at least that is enough. Enough to snap him out of this destructive mindset, enough to make him realise they’ve reached the courtroom and that he’s being seated directly behind Aaron. For a fleeting, irrational moment he thinks that if Aaron were to duck, Andrew could face his sentence. He would, if he could.

He is quite sure Betsy would have an explanation for what happens next, a name for this long hour gone for good without Andrew even noticing. He sits there and he registers nothing of it all, he watches Aaron at the stand and he sees his lips move, he watches as Drake’s friends and his colleagues and his lawyers replace Aaron one after the other. Nicky speaks as well, there are tears rolling down his cheeks. Andrew can’t hear any of it, there this static sound in his ears tuning it all out. This long, infinite beep that just won’t stop. It starts when he sees her, wearing all black except for one of those fucking flowers. Cass Spear used to grow sunflowers in her backyard, sometimes she would pick some and put them in a pretty blue vase. Ceramic. Sometimes, Andrew would find a stray flower in his backpack or on his bed. He remembers collecting them all, leaving them on his desk as they dried. Cass would never throw them away, she’d wait for Andrew to bring them downstairs and she’d ask if he could help her plant some more. Now, she sits there with her black dress and her black veil and one single, lonely sunflower in her hands. A shocking yellow colour. Andrew’s heart is off beat. He’s itching for some paper and a pen, a blade, he’d sacrifice his own blood to write something down. He doesn’t have any of those things, though, the only thing he has is a hand me down suit and a brother. Later, when he’ll be home, he’ll write Lady of The Flowers. Later, when he’ll meet Kevin and the Monsters will have to choose their first album’s songs, he’ll tear those pages to pieces.

“Andrew Minyard is called to testimony at the stand.”

So, Andrew goes. And he sits. And he listens. And he speaks. He tells them everything, his eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall and his voice steady, no inflection in his tone.

“It’s written here,” says the accuse’s lawyer “that you’ve served time in juvenile detention. Arson.”

Andrew says nothing, the lawyer’s lips lift almost imperceptibly.

“You also have a history of stealing, nothing major of course. What strikes me, is that you ended up in juvie at the seemingly worse timing: you had just discovered you had a brother, who would pass on the chance of meeting their long lost twin? This is highly unstable behaviour.”

“I was meant to get caught.” He says, simple as that. The lawyer had not been expecting that.

“Excuse me?” Asks the judge, a woman with grey hair and glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose. Andrew doesn’t look at her, he doesn’t look at anybody at all when he speaks.

“If I went to juvie, the Spears wouldn’t have wanted to adopt me anymore, let alone a brother they had never met.” The implication is heavy in the air, the lawyer doesn’t rise to bait.

“And why would you want that?

“Have you not been listening for the past half hour?”

The judge reprimands him for his tone.

“You could have told someone.” Ah, there it is.

“Whom, his mother?”

Cass’ cries echo in the room, she is full on sobbing now. Andrew swallows.

“Drake said he would convince Cass to adopt Aaron as well, if I was good, so that we could be together. So that he could have us both, after all, twins are every man’s fantasy, right?”

That is what it takes for chaos to burst.

Afterwards, when everything is over, when Aaron’s actions are recognised as self defence and he is only condemned to a few hours of community service, Andrew finds himself sitting on a bench in front of the toilets. Saying he was going to the bathroom was the only way Nicky would let him out of sight, so here he is. Just one hour before, everything was going perfectly, relatively speaking. It was clear that the judge had already made up her mind, that she was going to accept Aaron’s innocent plea from the beginning. Then why, why did Andrew had to say all of that? Why did that fucking lawyer get the chance to bring up his past and his record? Everything was going far too smoothly, Andrew should have known better. The terms of Aaron’s freedom require an effort on Andrew’s part as well, as if he hasn’t already done enough. As if everything he implied doesn’t matter. He is to see some other psychiatrist in addition to his sessions with Betsy, a psychiatrist that was right there in the audience, who approached Andrew at the end of the trial and informed him he already has the perfect combination of pills in mind. _You know, Andrew, I’ve been following victims’ recoveries for years_. Victims. Oh, well, if this is what it takes to assure Aaron’s freedom, Andrew will do it. After all, it’s not like he’s ever backed out before. His hands are shaking, he thinks he’d like to call Betsy. Before he can even think of actually doing it, someone sits beside him. Andrew doesn’t turn, he knows exactly who it is. He sees him every time he looks in the mirror. They sit there for a while, in silence.

“I would do it again, I would do it a thousand times over.”

The words hit much harder than they sound, straight to the chest. A kick in his solar plexus, meant to knock the breath out of him. He doesn’t find himself gasping, though. Not until Aaron says:

“Sometimes I think about how it would be if you were the one Tilda chose, wish it, even.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, happy Valentine’s Day! A few warnings for this chapter: minor suicidal thoughts (it’s just a few lines, but it’s there) and semi-graphic description of drug overdose (again, it’s nothing major). Also, I changed Neil’s song if anyone even noticed I mentioned it in the first chapter.  
> Enjoy!

_August_ _2018_

It was stupid, it is the most stupid choice he ever made and now he’s paying the price. ‘Paying the price’ consists in ignoring the thirty calls Wymack makes every day, ignoring Nicky’s knocks on his door and his brother’s angry stare when he finally comes out of his room. Just because he can’t survive without eating, that is. Kevin, though, Kevin is the worst of them all. He is stubborn and self centred and he simply won’t stop pestering Andrew about this fucking song. He changed his mind, he doesn’t want to play it anymore. Big fucking deal. It was a poor decision, admitting he had something up his sleeve (something under his mattress, actually) just because the band doesn’t know how be a band without him. It’s comical that Andrew himself has become someone people rely on, for all that he cares about others it should be impossible. Except. Except he does care about others, about his Monsters and maybe a tiny, tiny bit about the man who gave them a chance and bout Ne-

“Andrew, dinner’s ready. Please come out.”

Andrew ignores yet another one of Nicky’s attempts, he ignores that stupid word and he ignores his almost-slip-up. He wishes he could ignore this weight in his chest, pressing and pushing and breaking. He’s been trying to live with it for four months and it just won’t. Go. Away. And isn’t it funny, how Neil was the one who convinced him to get off his meds even when performing, that he was the one who showed him that he was still capable of feeling, the one who kissed him and made love to him and said: ‘you’re not a robot, you are flesh and bones and you burn hotter than anyone else’? Isn’t it funny, that he finally got Andrew to feel, more than he ever did in his entire life, more than he ever thought he could? When they used to smoke on the roof of Andrew’s fancy apartment in New York, the city at their feet, Neil would always grab Andrew’s sleeve and tug him away from the edge. Just a little bit, just to be sure. He used to do that, place a kiss on Andrew’s shoulder and tell him fear isn’t the feeling that will change his apathy. Andrew would shut him up the only way he knew how and then he’ll let him speak his name in pleasure. Neil was right, though, Andrew used to scoff back then, but now he knows. Now, he knows the answer is not fear. No, the answer is pain.

This song he’s written is nothing but pain, and it’s personal. The thing is, Andrew has never written songs about himself. Technically, he did, they were about Andrew himself but they passed through others. Song to Say Goodbye, Lady of the Flowers, Meds... those songs speak of other people and they only speak of Andrew Minyard if one knows where to look. This one song, though... this one song is in first person, it’s raw and _felt_ and so transparent that playing it live will manage to make his heart rate speed up. It’s too personal to be out there in the world, its place is in between Andrew’s mattress and the springs of his bed. When he let go of Song to Say Goodbye, he knew it would set him free. Deep down, he had always know it. Exit Wounds, though, is a trump card. Just like Neil. It will either set him free or kill him, Andrew has the uncanny suspicion it’ll be the last one.

That is the moment his phone rings, and the caller ID makes him want to smash it on the floor. For a few seconds, he thinks about not answering, as if he ever could. As if he isn’t weak enough to pass on even the slightest chance of hearing Neil’s voice once again. Still, he thinks about actually throwing his phone to the ground and stomping on it. It will make him feel better, imagining Riko’s face instead of his phone screen. Something, though, something he doesn’t have the courage to name, makes him answer. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t greet him. What comes from the other end of the line is panting and -and it sounds as if someone’s choking and there’s a distressed whine and-

“And-Andrew.”

Neil’s voice is distorted, like something out of a nightmare. His syllables broken, his breathing erratic.

“Neil, what’s going on?”

He can’t help himself, he simply can’t disconnect the call or ignore this, he can’t even act as if he’s not so worried his heart is in his throat. There is something very, very wrong with this call.

“Can’t -can’t breathe. Andrew.” It comes out as a whine, his name. A tone he has never heard from Neil before, it reminds of Aaron and shaking hands and ragged breathing, of a party in New York and a panic attack. There it is, the answer.

“Neil, you need to calm down. Breathe.”

Neil doesn’t answer, his panting is louder than ever, a reminder that, once again, Andrew is useless. He couldn’t deal with Aaron before and he can’t deal with Neil now, but there is no other Neil to intervene this time. This time, he is the one who needs help and Andrew is so. Fucking. Useless. A memory comes to his mind.

“Neil,” he says, stern, commanding, “count from one to ten.”

“I _can’t_.”

“You can.” He spits, but his voice wavers. “Count with me. One, two-“

A sharp intake of breath, then: “three, four.”

“Go on.” Encourages Andrew. And he does, he goes on and on and once he gets to ten, he starts over again. Andrew loses track of time, he finds himself sitting on the floor clutching at his phone so hard his knuckles turn white. He finds himself calming down, as Neil does the same, as he slowly, slowly comes back to himself. There is a moment of silence, then, when Neil has fully recovered. The both of them, on opposite sides of the world, lies and pain in between, sitting on the floor. Connected. This kind of silence is deafening, Andrew can’t stand it.

“Are you going to explain yourself?” He asks, mean, because he has the right to. Neil doesn’t answer right away and Andrew fears he might hang up, but he doesn’t. He just prolongs that unbearable silence for a few moments more, just enough for Andrew’s mind to conjure up an image. Wild curls and a shaken expression, those pale blue eyes distant and wary. If he were there, his hand would be at the back of Neil’s neck.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”

No. No, he doesn’t get to play it like this and get away with it. Andrew tells him that.

“I know, I- I didn’t know who else to call.”

“How about your boyfriend?” Asks Andrew, all venom and gritted teeth. Just the thought of Riko laying his hands on Neil when he is that vulnerable makes him want to book a flight and bury his knives deep into that rat’s throat. On the other end if the line, Neil sighs.

“Andrew, you know, you _know_ the truth.”

It’s a moment of weakness, a few words Neil shouldn’t have let slip and he knows it. Andrew hears it in his shaky voice. He does know the truth, he likes to fool himself into believing what the magazines say. Into believing what those pictures portray and into believing this fucked up story, but he does know the truth. It’s easier, thinking that Neil and Riko are real, thinking that at least one of the reasons Neil gave him before leaving him is real. It’s not, though, and they are both aware of it.

“I know the truth.” He admits. “I just don’t know _you_ anymore.”

“You never did.” Says Neil, it’s a fact. A statement. It’s enough to snap Andrew out of this stupor, this spell that suddenly hearing Neil’s voice cast on him.

“If you’re not going to give me an explanation, there is no reason for me to be on the phone.”

An ultimatum. Neil doesn’t take his chance, his silence speaks for itself and Andrew is just about to hang up when he finds his courage.

“He’s back.” He whispers, as if he’s scared someone will hear. He sounds off, but it’s different from before. A few minutes ago, he was frantic and whining, this... this sounds a lot like sheer terror.

“Who’s back?” Asks Andrew. Too many things aren’t adding up, the shock of speaking to Neil for the first time in months doesn’t erase that. Neil doesn’t answer, though.

“He said he wouldn’t be, that if I- if I went with him they’d keep him away, but he’s back. I saw him, he’s back and I -I-“

“You’re not making any sense.” Interrupts Andrew, Neil is well on his way to another panic attack and, this time, Andrew doesn’t think he’ll be enough to stop it.

“Andrew, I just want you to know that if anything were to happen... I mean you should know that I-“ he stops himself short, there is a noise in the background, a door slamming open. No, it cannot end like this, Andrew won’t stand for it. Not when Neil said those words, not when he admitted he’s in danger and Andrew can’t do anything about it.

“Don’t you dare hang up on me.” He threatens, but he already knows he has lost. He knows it even before he hears the rustling and the curse and, then, the monotonous signal of a dead line. Andrew starts packing the next second, his luggage is already half done when he receives a text.

_I’m fine, forget what I said and don’t do anything stupid. Don’t come for me, it’s a no, Andrew._

Of course, Neil knows just the right thing to write. Andrew’s hands itch, his knives sit on his bed, glinting and sharp and he just wants to throw them at someone. He won’t, though. _It’s a no, Andrew._ What he does instead is take that fucking song out, that piece of crumbled paper, torn and smudged, and run downstairs. He bypasses Nicky, Aaron and Kevin, ignores their questioning looks and their comments. He goes straight for the garden, takes out his lighter and burns Exit Wounds to ashes. Joke’s on him, though, Andrew Minyard never forgets.

***

 _August_ _2017_

Seth Gordon dies on a Friday, or maybe it’s already Saturday, Andrew is not sure. He’s too busy, see, busy trying to get his brother to _breathe_. He has a feeling New York will forever occupy a special place in his mind, from now on. Aaron is still hyperventilating, trembling on the floor, his eyes wide and unseeing as he stares at Seth’s convulsing body. Neil has already called 911, he even tried sticking his fingers in that fucking junkie’s throat, but a needle rests on the floor as proof of his failure. He’s stopped moving, now, white foam all around his mouth and Aaron can’t seem to be able to move. His hand is still resting on Seth’s arm, when Andrew nudges it with his foot, he takes it back as if burned. That is the moment he goes straight into panic and Andrew doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t have panic attacks, never had. What he used to experience is a pretty little thing called ‘disassociation’, thank you Bee. Panic attacks, though, are not his forte. Neil is by their side in a matter of seconds, there are screams coming from the ground floor and someone has started pounding on the door, shouting to be let in. Neil has locked it. Neil, who came to this stupid party because Andrew asked him to. Neil, who is the only reason Aaron doesn’t choke to death, the hand Andrew tried putting on his neck no more than another burden.

“Oh god, oh god.”

“Calm down, Aaron, count with me.”

“Oh god.”

Andrew feels useless, standing there and watching, just watching. He knows what it’s like to be helpless, this feeling resembles that a bit too much. The sensation turns his stomach, his throat closes up.

“One, two, come on.”

“Three, four -oh god. I’m dead, I’m dead.”

That is something that gets Andrew to snap out of it.

“You’ll be if you don’t fucking stop it.”

Aaron looks at him, he’s crying. It’s a punch in the gut, seeing tears streaming down his own face.The last time he let himself cry was -no. It doesn’t matter when that was, the only thing that matters is that Aaron is right in front of him, crying and panicking and speaking like a madman.

“No, no, I’m -I’m dead, oh god,”

And Andrew’s had enough. Because Aaron is not dead. He’s not fucking dead and he won’t ever be, not in front of Andrew at least.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He spits, kneeling in front of his brother, and isn’t that a bit of a deja vu? Except it’s the other way around, this time. Neil must sense there is something wrong, because Andrew feels his hand wrap around the hem of his sleeve. Not touching, ever careful. _I’m_ _here_.

“Aaron.” He insists, placing his hands on Aaron’s shoulders and shaking.

“It could have been me. I’ve been using again it could -it could -Andrew I swear to god I’ll get clean. I swear I won’t do it again, I swear, I swear. Please, I’m sorry, I swear.”

Andrew doesn’t flinch. And he doesn’t let go. He stays right where he is, with his hands on Aaron’s arms as he watches him sob. Well, maybe something good might come out of this.

The funeral is the next week, the Monsters are forced to attend. Andrew would rather claw his eyes out, than go anywhere near a church or Seth Gordon’s corpse. This pretty combo doesn’t sit well with Aaron, either. They can’t pass, though, not this time. Seth Gordon was signed with Foxhole Records and every act’s presence is pretty much demanded. Apparently, Seth’s parents decided to make an appearance as well, but they had a condition. They wanted the funeral to be in a church, while Seth Gordon was a very opinionated atheist. Oh, the fun never ends, does it?Also, Allison Reynolds, pop sensation and Seth’s girlfriend -oh, well, ex-girlfriend- has been driving everyone crazy about this whole funeral thing, at least that’s what Neil tells him. He’s friends with her, like he’s friends with Matt Boyd and Dan Wilds. Like he’s _friends_ with Andrew.

At the church, Andrew sits between his brother and Neil. Aaron doesn’t tear his eyes away from the casket for one second. Neil is a bit jittery, his leg bouncing up and down, it’s so annoying that Andrew finds himself pressing his palm to his knee. He would very much like to leave it there for a few minutes more. For the entirety of the funeral, for hours and days. Oh, this thing he put himself in is all backfiring.

“Why are you so nervous? Don’t you like funerals?”

Neil makes a face.

“Who does?”

“I do.” Shrugs Andrew. He doesn’t. Neil laughs, though, low and amused.

“Of course you do.”

They keep quiet for a bit, after that. The priest hasn’t yet arrived, people are still coming in and taking their seats. Outside, a hoard of crying fans is waving flowers and posters and everything they could come up with. They are so many that security had to put up barriers.

“The priest isn’t real.” Whispers Neil, out of the blue. And, well, what? Andrew asks just that.

“I mean he’s not a real priest and this church is deconsecrated.”

Isn’t that a surprise? Neil might be nervous, but he’s hiding a smile behind his hand.

“Little rabbit, what did you do?”

Neil’s eyes turn to him, big and blue and _sparkling_ with mischief. Andrew is so screwed.

“Seth’s parents are assholes, they threw him out when he was fifteen but have been trying to contact him since he made the cover of Rolling Stone. Allison certainly wasn’t going to let the funeral happen on their terms and I had an idea. We teamed up, turns out she knows a lot of actors.”

Andrew stares at him. This fucking boy. He hopes, whatever this thing he’s feeling is, that it’s not showing on his face. And that’s when it strikes, the fact that he’s feeling at all. The only time it happens is when he’s onstage, high as kite. After the crash, though, everything turns grey and apathy settles over him like a shield. Bee says it will take time, that the year he spent on those stupid meds has taken its toll. She doesn’t know, though, she doesn’t know what he was like before. She doesn’t know that this numbing apathy is as familiar to him as the back of his own hand. She also wants him to stop taking the pills altogether, as if. It’s his one condition, he performs live only if he can get high before. Aaron has called him a hypocrite so many times he’s lost count, whatever, he wouldn’t understand anyway. He doesn’t understand that Andrew is scared, he’s fucking scared that walking on that stage off his meds might reveal itself to be just like anything else. Unimportant, dry, numb. And then what would be the point? What would be the point of it all?

Whatever has just happened, though, this feeling in his gut that has nothing to do with lust, is -well, it’s a threat, because nothing will ever come out of it. Not when he and Neil have been hanging out for months and nothing ever happened. Andrew finds he doesn’t care much, if it means he gets to keep Neil in one way or the other.

“Remind me to never believe a single thing you say again.”

“Come on, you’re the only person I ever tell the truth to.” He says it like that, nonchalant. An answer, a statement, something to keep up the banter. As if he didn’t just make Andrew’s heart leap in his chest, the traitor. For the longest time, Andrew believed it was frozen, his heart. Now, he’s not so sure anymore. It’s true, what Neil said, or at least Andrew hopes so. This boy he’s met at a party, this boy who doesn’t smoke his cigarettes but always keeps one between his fingers, is surrounded by mystery. And if that is what made him interesting in Andrew’s eyes, at first, nobody has to know. And if now Andrew doesn’t care about secrets and that hidden gun he found in Neil’s apartment last week, nobody has to know either. Because Neil talks to him, Neil apparently trusts him enough to tell him about his life on the run. Andrew is oddly grateful, a feeling he has never associated with himself, but he can’t help it, not when someone like Neil Josten has chosen him. That’s what it all comes down to, in the end. Neil chose him and Andrew has never been chosen once in his life. Never.

Once the funeral is over, Andrew stays put at the bench, he has no intention to try and exit the church at the same time as all of these people. He doesn’t welcome the feel of other bodies pressed around him, nor the noise of screaming fans outside. It’s better to wait it out and Neil seems to agree. Nicky gives him a look and wiggles his brows when he tells him they should start looking for a ride, since he and Neil will take the Maserati. As all over the place and exuberant as Nicky is, he’s also quite observant. If he weren’t his cousin, Andrew would have to eliminate him.

“You know, churches have incredible acoustics.” Says Neil. It’s just the two of them now, sat on a bench in the tenth row, the smell of incense heavy in the air. “I want to see the organ, come on.”

“I want to go home.” Replies Andrew, unmoving. Neil rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch. Fuck.

“Just a few minutes, I used to love the one in our church, back when we lived with- well, back then.”

Andrew knows Neil’s father is a bad man, he doesn’t really speak about him, just in passing if it’s necessary. So, Andrew doesn’t know much, but he has seen that one scar on Neil’s hip, he can figure out the rest. Of course, after that Andrew can’t tell him no. He can never tell him no, actually, it’s something Nicky continuously teases him for.

“Be quick.”

Neil’s answering smile is hardly contained, far too private and real.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Spits Andrew, his head turned. With the corner of his eyes, he sees Neil shrug and extend a hand.

“Let’s go.” He says, after taking ahold of Andrew’s sleeve. He lets himself be tugged up and led towards the altar, but there is no organ behind it. What they find instead is a piano.

“Oh.” Sighs Neil, half surprised, half intrigued. He lets go of Andrew’s sleeve and walks to the piano, his fingers caress the keys as he walks around it.

“It’s old.”

Andrew makes a noise of assent and lets him have his fun. He stands there and watches as Neil takes a seat on the bench, rests his hand on the keys. His fingers make an aborted motion, as if they have a mind of their own, as if they can’t resist the pull of the music.

“Go on, you said you were a musician.” Says Andrew. When Neil looks up at him, Andrew has to take a moment to hide the hitch in his breath. There is a window right behind him, the glass is coloured and the light that shines through it falls directly onto Neil’s figure at the piano. All those reds and blues and greens shine on the upturn curve of his nose, on his high cheekbones and the mess of curls on his head. He is breathtaking. Andrew needs to get a fucking grip.

“I don’t know...” Neil’s words echo, even as quiet as they leave his lips.

“You heard my songs, it’s only fair I hear yours.”

Neil looks torn, a bit uncomfortable. The fact that Andrew is able to spot all of that, that he is able to read Neil so well comes as a surprise. He swallows. Neil doesn’t answer with words, he plays instead. He looks in his element here, with his fingers moving smoothly and lightly over the keys, a melody that is maybe far too upbeat for this place. For this moment. He is good, though, is he so very good and then he starts to sing and Andrew’s brain short-circuits for a second.

_Know this, it’s a universal truth_

_people let you down_

_So reach out for the things that you could use_

_buried in the ground_

_All of my secrets they are free_

_now watch them tumble out of me_

_into better days_

_So save those homiletic tones_

_and conjure singing from the moans_

_and you’ll hear me say_

It feels like a dream, like Neil’s voice and his notes come from another reality altogether. Maybe it’s the setting, maybe it’s the fact that he looks a bit like a scarred angel, sitting there bathed in coloured lights. Maybe it’s the fact that Andrew is so gone for this boy he’s scared he will never come back, not when what’s waiting for him on the other side is that music. Because Neil is good, he is more than good and his voice is so warm and deep that Andrew finds himself taking a step forward. And then another and another, until he’s right there beside him. Neil keeps on singing. He’s too focused to notice Andrew’s presence, his eyes closed and his brows furrowed. Andrew lets him play and listens, mesmerised.

_So when it gets too late_

_and I find my place_

_who will save your soul and love me here?_

_So when it gets too far_

_well let down your guard_

_who will save your soul and love me here?_

The last note echoes in the church, and when even that sound is gone all that remains is silence. Neil’s head is down, staring intently at the piano keys and something tells Andrew it’s because he feels too self conscious to look up. But he shouldn’t, not when he sang a song that good. Not when Andrew could hear the raw emotion behind his every word. So, he dares place two fingers under Neil’s chin and lifts them up. When Neil’s eyes meet his, no words are exchanged. They keep quiet and look at each other and Andrew can’t make himself move, it’s like he’s stuck, like he can’t help himself. There is a strange expression on Neil’s face, he feels him swallow.

“So,” croaks out Neil, “what do-“

“Yes or no?” Andrew cuts in. He doesn’t know what in the hell made him ask that stupid question, all that he knows is that his fingers are on Neil’s warm skin, that Neil’s eyes are wide and somehow understanding. He looks nervous for a second, but then he speaks.

“Yes.”

And Andrew kisses him. He kisses him breathless and keeps kissing him, again and again until his lungs burn. Until his whole body burns and suddenly he wants, he wants so bad his muscles twitch and his cheeks flood with red. Neil has his eyes closed, but when Andrew’s lips are gone he opens them. They’re glassy, and he looks so fucking dumb Andrew wants to kiss him all over again.

“You-you like me.”

Andrew rolls his eyes. This fucking boy.

***

 _May_ _2012_

When the guards tell him he has a visitor, Andrew’s first thought is so dark it actually clouds his vision, as if he is about to faint. If even this didn’t work out, if even landing himself in juvie isn’t enough to save this brother of his, then he doesn’t know what to do. For the first time since those last weeks at the Spears -when Andrew swears Drake knew what he was about to do and decided to make the most out of the little time they had left -he thinks that maybe this whole mess would settle itself if he weren’t there. Maybe he is the only thing linking them all, but he’s not strong enough, he’s can’t protect him. So, if he were to disappear -no, if he were to disappear Drake would find Aaron anyway, he would do it just out of spite if he could. Andrew needs to be here, as long as he’s walking on this Earth he can do whatever is needed to protect this Aaron from the monsters of his past. Another effort, one last mile before the finish line and then, maybe, just maybe, he’ll find a new one. It’s not the life anyone would imagine for themselves, but it will keep him alive, moving from goal to goal. Little by little, year by year. And in moments like this, he always has his notebooks and his knives.

When he enters the visitors room, though, there is no Drake sitting at the table, no Cass with one of her pretty sunflowers between her fingers. It’s Riko Moriyama. Andrew knows who he is, anyone who hasn’t lived under a rock for the past decade knows who the Moriyamas are. Riko is the youngest family member, he must be a year or two older than Andrew himself and a little prodigy. The guitar is his thing, but he is nothing compared to the person sitting right beside him. Kevin Day looks nothing like the future rockstar Edgar Allan Records portray him as, what with the way he tries to make himself smaller than Riko, hunched shoulders and fiddling hands. There is determination in his eyes, though, and a set to his jaw that makes him look a bit snobbish. Oh, Andrew can’t wait to hear what these two have to say. Mostly, he can’t wait to turn them down.

“Minyard,” starts Riko with a smile, “I’m sure you know who I am.”

Andrew doesn’t answer, this arrogant boy -because he is no more than a boy- isn’t worth the effort. He keeps his face blank and meets Riko’s eyes dead on, then he slides them to Kevin. He keeps them there.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Continues Riko, Andrew can tell he’s annoyed and the fact that Andrew is still looking at Kevin instead of him can only fuel that annoyance. When he finally spares a glance to Riko, he sees the colour of his cheeks betray the polite smile on his lips. “We saw your video and we want to sign you with Edgar Allan, of course we’d have to wait for the end of your sentence to start working, you know how the press is. Anyways, here’s the contract, we just need a few signatures.”

There are more than a few of Riko’s words swirling around Andrew’s brain, the utter conviction and arrogance in his tone, for starters, like he already knows Andrew will accept. Like he isn’t allowed to do anything _but_ accept. But then, something takes the priority.

“My video.” Says Andrew, still and stony. Riko gives him a considering look, head tilted and eyes curious.

“You don’t know?”

Andrew hears the words, but doesn’t see Riko’s lips move. Ah, someone finally decided to speak up.

“There is an article online about this place and their rehabilitation program, sports and music. They put up a video of you, playing and singing. I suppose that song is original, we couldn’t find it anywhere and guessed it must be yours, that’s why we have to have you.”

It doesn’t take long to register what Kevin said, but the words hit him a bit harder than expected. _They put up a video of you_ , oh, whoever ‘they’ were, Andrew would make them pay. He knew he should have chosen sports, that he should have never signed up for the music program because it was too close, it had the power to turn too personal. And it did, but Andrew thought he had been careful, secretive. Well, apparently not. And now Edgar fucking Allan wants to sign him, these things don’t happen to people like him. People like him are supposed to end up working minimum wage jobs, struggle through their whole life, end up in prison, maybe. End up dead. People like him don’t become famous rockstars, their dreams don’t become reality. Not that it is a dream, being famous, maybe it used to be. Not anymore, not for a long time. What this all ordeal means is that there must be a catch, that something is wrong and Andrew won’t sign a damn thing if it means tying himself to these people. If there is one thing Andrew has learnt to long for, that he _let_ himself long for, it’s freedom.

“I see.” He says. “You want to sign a sixteen years-old nobody from Oakland, because of a poor quality video on YouTube.”

The thing is, he can’t find the strength to outright refuse them. It’s not because some part of him is still capable of hoping, fuck, of course not. It’s more like this might prove to be a good deal, if he plays smart.

“How do you think Justin Bieber was discovered?” Asks Riko, flippant. Andrew raises a brow. “Maybe I should remind you that this is a one in a million opportunity, we’re Edgar Allan Records and you’re a sixteen years-old nobody from Oakland with a history of arson and violence. Who else is going to offer you something so special? Who else is going to close an eye or two on your record and your abhorrent personality?”

And, well, if there was a chance Andrew might ever accept their proposition, now it’s gone. He knows people like Riko, he saw the glint in his eyes as soon as he sat at the table. Andrew wouldn’t still be alive if he hadn’t learnt how to recognise danger. Riko might be nothing compared to the sick fucks Andrew has dealt with, but there is something very wrong about him as well.

“The answer is about to be no.” He says, because there is still the slightest chance he might accept to deal with Riko, if it means he can find that one goal. That one reason. All he needs is a decent contract, what is set on paper cannot be reversed.

“Excuse me? Did you not hear what I said?”

“Last I checked, I’m not deaf.” Riko is about to answer, his features morphed with anger, but Andrew stops him before he can utter a single world. “Give me the contract.”

Riko does, and his face smooths out. He looks smug, like he won some kind of battle. He offers him a pen.

“Uh-uh.” Scolds him Andrew, half a smile on his lips. “Read first, sign later.”

Riko is stunned into silence for a few seconds, then his lips thin and his jaw twitches, as if he’s trying to contain himself. He makes a gesture at Andrew to do as he pleases, mechanic. Oh, someone isn’t in a good mood.

The next half hour is spent like this: Andrew reads, Andrew memorises, Andrew realises more and more with each word that if he were to sign this, he’d be stepping from a cell into a cage. In the background, Riko and Kevin blubber on and on about how unimaginable it is to refuse an opportunity like this, about how they can make a star out of him, how great it will be, the three of them onstage. A force to be reckoned with. Andrew doesn’t listen, what he focuses on is the ink that seals the door of that cage shut. Control over his music, control over his statements, control over his fucking diet. Control over the people he wants to fuck, as if he’ll ever allow someone to touch him again. When he’s done, he rearranges the papers carefully, calm. Then, he hands them over to Riko, him and Kevin stop talking abruptly, waiting. Andrew looks at them both before saying:

“No.”

The reaction he gets out of Riko is enough to prove the decision he made is the right one. Andrew might not have found his reason, yet, but he will never, never be helpless again. Never.


	5. Chapter 5

_August_ _2018_

It happens like all things that are meant to have an impact happen, unexpectedly. It hits him all at once, as if he has never had his heart targeted before. As if he didn’t forget he had one long, long ago. It hits him so hard and sudden that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. This lighting strike, straight to the place Andrew rediscovered after a long, long time. When Neil came to him in May, when Andrew found him in his apartment in New York with a key placed on the kitchen table, things were different. It hadn’t hurt, and maybe that should have been a sign, a sign that Andrew would go back to that state of apathy he’d learnt to leave behind. Slowly. Even singing Every Me Every You Every at single fucking concert left on tour, even hearing he’d have to see Neil again sooner or later, even deciding to give Exit Wounds to the world couldn’t make him go back to his truest self. Who Andrew Minyard has become, who he worked to and let himself become, is someone Bee would be proud of (not Andrew himself, never). And, then, it all went back to square one. Andrew found himself stuck in that mud of apathy and not much more and now -now everything he was supposed to feel three months hits him like a fucking truck. Andrew _aches_. His chest physically hurts, as if he buried one of his knives in it. The knives he decided to leave in the drawer, at night, because Neil wouldn’t close an eye if he felt the shape of them under the pillows. It’s different from the unavoidable pain that came with cutting things off, because after that call Andrew doesn’t know what to do, Andrew _always_ knows what to do and now he can’t wrap his mind around any of the things going on inside his brain. He thinks he feels hollow, carved out, and it hurts. Maybe, if he hadn’t heard Neil’s voice, this wouldn’t be happening. Maybe, if he hadn’t recognised the urgency in it, the need, he wouldn’t have fallen in this bottomless hole of misery. That call, that stupid, stupid call changed everything and Andrew can’t do anything about it. He can’t pack his bag and run to the only person he has ever wanted to run to, he won’t break his trust. _It’s_ _a_ _no_ , _Andrew_. He’s restless. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he smokes a few cigarettes. He doesn’t know what to do with his feet, so he walks to the window and smokes a few cigarettes. He doesn’t know what to do with his thoughts, so he pretends he could ever switch his brain off and smokes a few cigarettes. He misses the simple motions of being with someone, passing his fingers through Neil’s hair, kissing him. He misses. Misses. Andrew Minyard doesn’t do missing, but he’s aware he’s been lying to himself this whole time. Because he missed Neil when he left for Europe all those months ago and he misses him now that he won’t ever come back. Not to him.

If he hadn’t been leaving his room much in the past weeks, now it’s even worse. He just can’t be bothered, he can’t stand the sight of the world turning and turning around as if nothing has happened. It all goes by, smoothly, and some childish part of him thought it would stop just for the sake of it, just because Andrew needs it to. Of course, it doesn’t, Andrew should have known. He remembers it all too well, how things were perfect and people kept doing what they did and nobody designed him of a glance, while he was hiding fresh cuts under his sleeves and pretending Cass didn’t notice the stains on his sheets. And now, once again, the world doesn’t stop. Nicky and Aaron and Kevin rehearse, Andrew fights the urge to write Exit Wounds all over again. It’s an itch under the skin of his fingertips, consistent, begging. Time passes and Andrew doesn’t keep track of it, he eats when the others are already done and watches his guitar from afar, not daring to take it into his hands. Staying at Columbia probably helps, a few months from now he will admit it did, in fact, help. New York is one giant, unbearable, uncontrollable fountain of memories and he doesn’t think he could see that kitchen table without throwing a fit and destroying everything. The keys are probably still there, untouched. What really helps, though, what really makes a difference is Andrew’s Monsters. He’ll never say it out loud, god no, but it’s Aaron and Nicky calling Bee that makes a difference. Their sessions have been diluted during the past year, because Andrew didn’t need to see her every week anymore. It was another finish line reached, she was proud. When he’s on tour or in New York they skype, when he’s in Columbia they even go out for hot chocolate. He hasn’t heard her voice in weeks, realising she is the one knocking on his door is startling enough to make him open it.

“Andrew, hello.” Says Bee as she takes a seat at Andrew’s desk. He stays right where he is, on the bed.

“Hello Bee.”

“It’s been longer than usual, Abby told me the tour was a success.”

Abby is Wymack’s whatever, girlfriend, wife, nobody knows. They’re together, though, and on that fatal winter morning, when Kevin Day showed up at Andrew’s door begging for help, it turned out she and Bee knew each other from college. When the Monsters signed with Foxhole Records her connection to Bee became one last certainty, one last proof that, yes, Andrew was a deadly investment, but he could be tamed.

“All sold out.” He says, a fact.

“I’m happy to hear that.” She pauses, then, organic and natural. “Now, you look quite tired, have you been sleeping?”

One would think that locking himself in his room wouldn’t give him many alternatives, but lately the nightmares have been more vivid. He tells her. Bee listens and nods, she looks like she always does, soft around the edges and placid.

“Do you think there might be a reason for that?”

He doesn’t want to tell her, he doesn’t want to tell anyone. It’s between him and Neil, but it’s eating him inside.

“Neil called me last week.” If Bee is surprised, she doesn’t show it. “He was having a panic attack and I talked him through it.”

“Was that a trigger?”

“No. He’s in danger, but he told me not to come for him.”

Bee looks pensive for a few seconds and Andrew is almost surprised to find himself calm, but then again he wouldn’t have agreed to continue their sessions for all these years if that weren’t the case. She is a comforting presence, she knows more about Andrew than anyone else in this world and, oddly enough, he trusts her.

“Let’s start looking into that, yes?”

He nods and they begin. He always feels drained after their sessions, weak, but when he stands up from the bed his body feels much lighter. That call from Neil and his ‘no’ caused a sense of helplessness to resurface, a ghost memory of things that happened a long time ago, things that Andrew can’t forget. He knew that, deep down, but saying it out loud, reaching that conclusion with Bee by his side is another thing entirely. _It_ _helps_. Andrew remembers her telling him to watch out for Neil, as if she already knew, as if she had predicted this would happen. She doesn’t say anything about that, no ‘I told you so’s, because she is Bee and she knows Andrew better than anyone else in this world.

After he sees her to the door, Andrew decides to leave his bedroom behind and have dinner with the Monsters, instead. Because Bee said it would help distract him. Because he knows they had something to do with her sudden appearance. When he walks into the kitchen Nicky smiles so big his whole face scrunches up, Jesus. All it takes is Andrew raising an eyebrow for him to turn sheepish. Everyone keeps quiet for a few moments, even Aaron and Kevin. Then, out of the blue, completely unprompted, Nicky bursts.

“Yes, yes it was me!” He says, hands in the air. “I called Betsy because I was worried, okay? The last time you did that disappearing thing was after -well, you know. So, yes, I called her. Hit me, scream at me, do whatever you want but I don’t regret it.”

Andrew looks at him for a long time, unblinking. Then he says: “I didn’t ask,” and takes a seat at the table. Dinner is a quiet affair, except for Nicky, of course. Aaron keeps stealing glances at him until Andrew throws him a look of his own. Aaron shrugs and stuffs his mouth with peas, on his lips the ghost of a smile. Kevin, though, is acting quite strange. The first hint that something isn’t right is the fact that he doesn’t bring up Andrew’s song, not once. And Andrew, Andrew knows his Monsters. Andrew knows exactly what to expect from Kevin after he burnt Exit Wounds to ashes, which is a total breakdown. Desperation, anxiety, _what will we do now that we don’t have a song? Our careers are over._  But Kevin sits at the kitchen table and keeps silent, he doesn’t look at Andrew, not even when they all move to the living room for video games and whiskey. Oh, something is definitely not right and Andrew has no intention of letting it slip. Not when he hasn’t seen Kevin like this since he came to them after that fatal concert in Austin. First, though, for once, he has to think about himself. He has to get back on his feet and, then, he can go and figure out what the hell Kevin is hiding.

***

_December_ _2017_

It happens like all things that are meant to have an impact happen, by chance. If Andrew cared enough, he could easily find someone to blame. Like the girl who snapped the picture, the other thousands of people who re-twitted it. Like Neil, for not paying attention and exiting the building looking all kinds of disheveled. Like himself, for letting Neil walk out of his apartment without checking first. The thing is, Andrew doesn’t care. Maybe he should, what with the person Neil will have to deal with after the scandal, but he can’t bring himself to care. He is out, he was on the _cover_ of Out, there doesn't exist a single fan or person whatsoever who doesn’t know which way Andrew swings. Not a problem of his, this one. Neil, on the other hand, is very much carte blanche.

It happens on a cold, winter morning, a few days before Christmas. Andrew wakes up feeling far too warm, the comforter is soft and plush under his arms, a total contrast to the hardness of the body pressed to his. It’s a relative new development, sleeping together like this. Not that it didn’t happen before, but on those nights the only one who got a few hours to sleep was Neil. When he woke up, he’d ask Andrew how the night went and Andrew would say it went horribly because Neil snored. He wouldn’t tell him that he couldn't even fall asleep because his traitorous mind wouldn’t let his traitorous body relax in the presence of another person in his bed. It was worth it, watching the way Neil’s expression softened in his sleep, his lips parting and those ridiculously long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Now, though, now Andrew can allow himself to be vulnerable. Now, he can lay down next to Neil, close his eyes and unwind for a few hours. And then, his favourite moment. He never thought he’d have a favourite moment of the day, something so stupidly cliche it makes him want to throw up, but it turns out he does. Maybe it’s because he skipped on adolescence, who knows, but that one moment when it’s morning and he has yet to open his eyes, when he registers the feel of Neil’s warm skin between his arms and the feel of Neil’s even breaths on his neck... that is his favourite moment. So, when he wakes up that morning to Neil beside him, pressed close, he has to make an effort to suppress the uncharacteristic twitch of lips that threatens to expose him. Neil doesn’t notice, his eyes still close.

“I know you’re awake.” Says Andrew, voice gruff and scratchy. Neil smiles, slow and languid and Andrew wants to touch him so bad it makes his palms itch.

“I’m not.”

Andrew huffs, asks for consent and slides right home, under the cold light of morning.

Later, when they’re showered and dressed and sipping coffee, Andrew can’t keep his eyes off Neil. There is something so undeniably arousing about the way Neil looks after sex, when his eyes are glazed and his lips are swollen. When his hair is still messy and tangled despite the shower and his skin bears the marks of Andrew’s attention. There is also something undeniably arousing about the way Neil can’t seem to be able to connect to reality for at least twenty minutes, after. He sits there at the kitchen table and looks out of the window, Andrew is not a talker and Neil is too lost to attempt a conversation. It’s quiet and Andrew likes watching Neil’s cheeks flood with red from time to time, as if he can’t control his thoughts, as if he’s thinking about what they did. Andrew’s chest feels pleasantly heavy, a heaviness he can’t place, it’s almost as if his lungs and whatever else there is in there are one size too big. (Full, his chest feels full, but it’ll take him quite a bit longer to admit that). Of course, Neil leaves the apartment with that dreamy look still on his face, doesn’t even bother with a scarf to hide the passing redness on his neck. Of course, that is the one time a fan is around and easily snaps a few pictures. The day after, _Andreil_ is trending on Twitter.

“Neil, what do you have to say about those pictures?”

“Neil, are you and Andrew Minyard dating?”

“Is it true you’re Riko Moriyama’s new project?”

Neil’s expression on the television screen is blank, a pair of sunglasses on his face and a confident stride to enter Edgar Allan’s recording studio. Andrew turns the television off, his apartment is finally quiet once again. He has no intention of watching paparazzi and journalists try to get an answer from Neil, he can do whatever he wants, Andrew doesn’t care. There is a small, small part of him that doesn’t agree with that, though. A part of him that wants to stand up for whatever it is that’s between them. Too bad, Neil is under Riko’s contract and Andrew knows all too well what that means. Beside him on the couch sits his laptop, open on an article by some stupid online gossip magazine, a picture of Neil under the title.

_Who is Neil Josten? An insight on this week’s hottest name in the music industry._

Andrew scrolls down, half reading. Words like Riko Moriyama and Edgar Allan jump from the screen, bold _and_ italics. Classy.

_What kind of powers must this new star have, if he’s the one who managed to steal the Monster’s heart? Neil Josten seems to be no princess, though, a witch might be more fitting._

He checks Twitter, because he doesn’t live under a rock unlike Neil, who doesn’t have an account yet. He is being mentioned way too much, some slurs are being thrown around but it’s not like Andrew has ever been affected by those. The Monsters’ rising popularity means a lot of attention, attention none of them -except for Kevin- is used to. It’s what they wanted, though, isn’t it? They all wanted to matter, to be someone, while Andrew was fine with what he had. He was surviving, he was safe. If he could go back, though, he wouldn’t change a thing, and that’s saying a lot. All this dwelling and a turned off television cause him to miss on the moment that changes everything. The moment that takes Neil away from him. Because Neil fucking Josten doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut and, apparently, Neil fucking Josten can’t stand journalists shouting that he must be very brave if he’s willing to sleep next to a monster. In the following months, the video will become so popular that some might think it was a PR stunt. Right now, it makes Andrew’s stomach clench with something he can’t name, a feeling that makes him want to climb in his car, drive straight to Neil and kiss him senseless. What Neil says is:

“You know what? I’ve known monsters my whole life and let me tell you something, Andrew is a lot of things, but monster isn’t one of them. _He_ is brave and he is fierce and I couldn’t ask for more. Now, the fact that you come up with such bullshit and insults on a daily basis proves that under all those fake smiles and fake diplomas the real monsters are you. Maybe if you found a real job, no harassing people and spitting lies left and right, you wouldn’t feel this need to give into your inferiority complex. That being said, have a good day, bye.”

The next day, Andrew finds Neil at his door, a look on his face so grim and resigned that it makes Andrew’s stomach twist. Oh, he should have known. Andrew leaves the door open and turns his back to him. _Look, look how I trust you, think twice before saying whatever it is you have to say_. But Neil keeps quiet, he enters Andrew’s apartment, takes off his shoes and doesn’t say a word. So, Andrew speaks up in his place.

“You have a big mouth.” He quotes, something from six months before. Something he told him on a roof for the first time, and anywhere else for the second and third and fourth.

“She always said it would get me in trouble,” says Neil after a while, “she used to punish me whenever I ran my mouth in public, whenever I couldn’t hold myself back.”

His mother. Mary. Andrew looks at him, how he stands there in the middle of his apartment, with his grey sweatpants and his ridiculous orange sweater. With his feet bare because he always forgets to put on socks and his eyes cast to the ground.

“She was a bad person.” Says Andrew, unapologetic. Neil’s head shots up, a grimace pulling at his lips.

“She was right.”

Andrew doesn’t answer, this is not the time for this kind of discussion. He walks to the kitchen and starts making hot chocolate instead, conveniently forgetting that Neil doesn’t even like sweets very much. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable but not reassuring, either.

“Riko threatened to sue me for breaching their contract.”

That is exactly the kind of bomb Andrew was expecting, so he doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t react at all, because he had this all figured out from the beginning. From the moment Riko handed him that piece of paper, the keys to a cage he was supposed to lock himself in. Willingly.

“What exactly does ‘breaching their contract’ entail?”

He already knows the answer, of course, but he wants to hear Neil say it. Maybe, saying out loud will actually make him realise how stupid he was. He’s not angry, oddly enough. Andrew has known anger his whole life, it’s the one emotion he has never been able to let go of completely, even when he’s feeling so grey and unmoving that a bullet to the stomach wouldn’t cause him any pain. Right now, though, his anger is buried as deep as it can get. He doesn’t know how to explain it to himself, this non-feeling, this calm. He thinks the lack of anger might be blamed on another, intense emotion taking over. Dread.

“They want to publicise me as single, available for all. I was forbidden from confirming that I was in a relationship, let alone a gay one.”

“We’re not in a relationship.” Is what comes out of Andrew’s mouth. It’s not like he’s wrong. No, this thing with Neil is far, far more than a boyfriend kind of thing. They both know it, they also both know that they technically are in a relationship, but social norms have never applied to either of them. Andrew’s words aren’t meant to cut and Neil, being Neil, realises it in stride. This. This is what makes it all different.

“They still didn’t want people to think I’m gay.”

“You knew that and you still signed their contract.” Bites back Andrew. Still, there is no anger behind his words. Annoyance, maybe. A tiny bit of fear, probably. Now, for the first time since he walked into Andrew’s apartment, Neil falters.

“I-I didn’t think it would be a problem. I’m not gay.” Andrew arches an eyebrow.

“I’m not.” Insists Neil. “I like _you_ and that’s it.”

It’s quite the shock, hearing that. It feels surreal, because Andrew has never been the one. He has never been the only. And now, a boy who believes the only way to survive in this world is by lying is looking at him with an earnestness in his eyes Andrew has never seen before, and he’s telling him Andrew is the one. He is the only.

“They will drop the lawsuit and keep my contract anyway.”

Andrew should have know better.

“What’s the price?” He asks, because there is always a price. Neil sits at the kitchen table, he doesn’t sigh, but he doesn’t meet Andrew’s eyes.

“Riko is taking me to Europe for the whole year, some sort of tour.”

And there it is. Of course, of course Riko would play it like that. Andrew is a threat, he is the obstacle between Riko and complete ownership over Neil. Of course, Riko wants to break them, and what’s better than twelve months apart to make those flames die? They’ll both be on tour, flying to each other will take so long that they’ll end up spending one, maximum two days together. Not even once a month, probably. It could be the end, Andrew is under no impression that Neil will willingly keep this up when it might cost him so much pain. Andrew himself doesn’t want him to feel so much pain. He can give him an outlet, right now. He can put an end to this and spare them the agony.

“I guess we’re done, then.” He says. He recognises that voice perfectly, that somber, emotionless timbre he forgot he was capable of. Neil shots to his feet.

“No, we’re not done” It’s decisive, plain and simple. Then, because Neil is Neil, “unless you want us to be.”

The relief flooding Andrew’s chest is such a new sensation that he can’t react for a few seconds, standing still in the kitchen with his heart beating so hard it’ll bruise his lungs. But then, then he can’t help himself. Then, he walks to Neil and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.

“I don’t.” He says, lips brushing against Neil’s, their breathing synchronised. He doesn’t.

Neil spends an entire week in his apartment, they don’t go outside unless it’s necessary and their days pass by in some sort of haze. Warm blankets and hot chocolate, take out and Christmas films just because Neil has never watched one. Ignored calls and texts, Andrew and his guitar, Neil and his voice. Sex in bed, sex on the floor, sex on the couch, on the kitchen table and on the kitchen counter, by the window and by the bookshelf. And then, on the seventh day, Neil says:

“I’m leaving in two days, I have some gigs booked in January but Riko wants to be there before, something about publicity.”

“Something about publicity.” Replies Andrew, simple as that.

“We already talked about this.”

“We did,” he says, “but it doesn’t mean I suddenly understand why you agreed.”

“I told you, I don’t have a choice.”

At that Andrew keeps quiet for a few moments. It’s true, they have already discussed this and Andrew didn’t say ‘we can do this’, he said ‘buy yourself an international phone plan”. Still, hearing Neil say those words, actually hearing that he’ll be leaving so soon makes it all a bit too real. He hates this, hates having become so dependant on this stupid, lying boy. Hates that now he has this, he knows what he’ll be missing. It was different, before, _he_ was different. Andrew doesn’t believe people have the power to heal other people, he does believe they have the power to change them, though. For better or worse, he should know. Because people changed Andrew indeed, they made him into what he is now, into the monster everyone thinks him to be. But then Neil came along and he changed him into something just a tad bit more content. Safer. Someone who knows his back is being watched, someone who is still as hard on the edges as he is inside, but sporting a few soft spots here and there. And now Neil is leaving, and Andrew knows exactly what he will miss.

“Some of us, sometimes,” replies Andrew, “don’t. Right now, you do.”

It’s a jab, a blind shot that might land anyway, because Andrew knows there is something else. Because Neil wouldn’t let go of his freedom for a record deal and a bunch of European gigs, because Neil has the money to pay for the lawsuit, if Riko were to sue him for breaching his contract. Even if he didn’t, there are plenty of people who care about him enough to pay off his debt. Unfortunately, Andrew is one of them. Neil sees right through him, right through his words. He’s looking at Andrew with those blue eyes of his, with that stupid expression on his face. He looks like it hurts to talk, like his throat is raw and bleeding and, still, he can’t leave it be.

“I know. This is my choice, then.”

And that, Andrew can’t argue. He can disagree, but he’s not one to meddle. Neil is the maker of his future, Andrew won’t interfere. He has tried it already, when Neil initially signed with Riko, when he told him he was making a mistake. Neil didn’t listen, Neil couldn’t keep his mouth shut, Neil is getting shipped off to Europe. They already talked about this, though, and Andrew inexplicably found himself holding onto whatever it is that’s between them for dear life. Clearly, Neil has no intention of letting go either. Andrew turns his back to him, opens the window and lights a cigarette. Then, he passes it to Neil.

“Check for flights on Wednesday nights, it’s cheaper.” He says. Neil’s smile is small and soft and surprised. He accepts Andrew’s cigarette and steps forward until he is curled into Andrew’s side. Not touching, just there. Like he fits perfectly under Andrew’s arm and between his ribs and pressed to his lungs.

“And who taught you that, exactly?” Neil asks, voice teasing. He did, Andrew never forgets, but he certainly isn’t going to answer. It makes Neil laugh, a bit too loud, as if he’s finally allowing relief to catch up to him. Relaxing. Because Andrew is holding onto them for dear life and Neil has no intention of letting go.

The morning after, before Neil leaves, Andrew slips a piece of paper in the pocket of his jacket. The thing is, Andrew Minyard doesn’t do romantic. Andrew Minyard won’t run to the airport at the last minute to kiss Neil goodbye and he won’t tell him he loves him and he won’t sing that song for him. But that song is for Neil, that song is meant to say everything Andrew can’t or won’t. He won’t be there to watch him as he reads it, but he can picture it. Neil should have gotten used to this, to Andrew writing stupid songs about him like a fucking teenager, but something tells him Neil will still be surprised. Andrew Minyard doesn’t do well with talks or gestures, but he does do well with music, so he writes Neil a song called Special Needs. He hopes Neil will remember him, when he is the one who’s silver screened, when he’s the one he’s always dreamed to be. And he hopes Neil will still remember him on the other side of the world whenever noses start to bleed. He hopes, again, that Neil will remember him through flash photography and screams, because he is nineteen and a sucker’s dream, Andrew’s dream. He guesses, he thought Neil had the flavour. Special needs, thinks Andrew, maybe even special dreams.

***

_January_ _2016_

Kevin Day knocks on their door at four in the morning. Aaron is the first downstairs and Kevin is so delirious and shaken that he thinks it’s Andrew. His face is ashen, his hands are trembling but there is something especially wrong with his left one. His eyes are wide, unseeing, and they keep darting form one corner of the house to the other, as if looking for a threat. Andrew knows that expression, he can recognise terror from miles of distance.

“What are you doing here?” He asks. Maybe if Kevin Day came to him in the morning, when Andrew takes his first dose, he wouldn’t feel as if this rockstar’s presence in his house might be nothing short of a doom. He is sober, though, because he was supposed to be asleep and he was supposed to never see Kevin Day again, not even once. He remembers all too well that air of superiority, that incredulous expression when Andrew rejected him and his counterpart. Speaking of.

“Where is Riko?” Continues Andrew, still no answer. “Listen up, Day. You either explain this, or you’re out of here. If you don’t leave, I’ll make you.”

His knives glint in the moonlight, nobody has dared move a muscle yet, let alone turn the lights on. Nicky and Aaron know better than to try and talk him out of this, still Nicky can’t hide his flinch at the sight of Andrew’s blades. Neither can Kevin.

“I-I think I need a doctor.” And with that, Kevin Day faints in their living room.

They take him to Bee’s because Andrew has no intention whatsoever of causing a scene at the hospital, something tells him Kevin being in Columbia is a matter that shouldn’t be made public at all. Now, Bee might be a lot of things, but she is not the kind of doctor Kevin needs. Of all the things she is, though, resourceful is one of them. She calls a woman ( _a friend, Andrew, I trust her)_ who shows up so fast they might as well have called an ambulance. When she sees Kevin Day, international rockstar in the making, she doesn’t bat an eyelid. Huh. Instead, she has him sit down on the sofa, speaking in hushed tones, and starts examining him. Andrew leans on the wall and watches, he watches as Kevin keeps his left hand cradled to his stomach, he watches as this Abby woman makes a grab for it and Kevin recoils so hard he ends up on the other end of the couch. Andrew’s had enough.

“Kevin.” He calls, sharp. The man in question turns to him, startled. “You better start speaking.”

And so he does. He tells them about a concert in Austin, one of their biggest up to date. He tells them about the crowd, how big it was, how they were all screaming for him, chanting his name like a prayer. And then, he tells them about the microphone. About reaching for it and feeling the discharge curse through his whole body. His hand on fire, Riko looking all kinds of terrified and the fans screaming again, this time in despair. Someone taking him backstage, someone telling the crowd they had it covered, that Kevin was on his way to the hospital while they were throwing him in a van, instead. Things are a blur after that, Kevin remembers waking up in their hotel suite, Riko by his side. He remembers Riko telling him this is what happens when one steps out of line, he remembers the pain.

“How the fuck did you make it here?” It’s Aaron, scowling as always. Kevin stops his rambling, sudden. His silence isn’t what he promised Andrew, though, and he realises it soon enough.

“Jean, our drummer.” His voice cracks, for a moment Andrew thinks he might cry. “He-he got me on a plane as soon as Riko left to deal with the press. I-I don’t know why he sent me here, I can’t remember, I just -oh god, Jean.”

“I’ll tell you why.” Interrupts him Andrew. Everyone in the room turns to him. “Tomorrow, we’re going to have a chat.”

“What, no! We have a right to know what the hell is going on, you don’t get to ask him stuff in private.”

Oh, Aaron, always standing up for injustice. Andrew doesn’t answer, he says his goodbyes and makes his way out of the house. If the others want to get home, they can follow him or whatever. Not his business. He has other things to think about, one thing in particular. Because it is clear as day (ha!) that Jean sent Kevin to him for protection, because Andrew is the only one who ever refused Riko, because he is the only one who has a chance at standing up to him. Riko ruined Kevin, he probably ruined his career, but he still won’t let him be. He thinks Kevin is his, he thinks he belongs to him, and that isn’t something to be taken lightly. This Jean guy has done his research, Andrew will give him that, but he didn’t take Andrew’s will in consideration. Taking Kevin in is dangerous, but Andrew isn’t afraid of Riko, he simply doesn’t think it will be worth it. Andrew Minyard does nothing for free and he has a whole night to think about what he wants in return. He won’t come up with anything, in the morning, he will offer Kevin his protection with a price he will collect later. It will be risky and Aaron will be pissed, and a few months later Kevin will tell him: “I can give you something to live for.”

And Andrew will say: “I don’t care about music, I’m not a rockstar.”

And Kevin will say: “I can make you one.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t hate me :)))

_September_ _2018_

It takes him a month, but Andrew does get back on his feet. He will probably never admit it out loud, but ‘Nicky’s Therapy’ actually helped. It entailed trips to the grocery store or to the gym or the ice cream parlour, whatever could be considered as a good excuse to get him out of the house daily. It entailed limited phone time and laptop time and tv time. He doesn’t even know why he agreed to all this, Andrew Minyard does whatever the fuck he wants and letting his cousin take over his routine like this is definitely out of his comfort zone. Maybe it’s because he can’t stand it anymore, feeling like a shell of the person he had finally become, all thanks to a person. It’s always one single, fucking person, though -isn’t it? One person to ruin it all, one person to glue it all back together. Then, there’s the fact that he can’t act, it kind of destroys him more than missing him does. More than admitting he misses him does. It’s one text, one stupid text sent by one stupid person and it’s a clear ‘no’. He wishes he didn’t know, that Neil never called him panicking and never told him he was in danger. He didn’t say that, though, not exactly, but Andrew knows him like nobody else. Andrew wants to save him like some sort of knight in a shiny fucking armour. That’s what love did to him, it made him soft.

And. And no.

No that’s not love, love isn’t a word that belongs in Andrew’s vocabulary. Love is a construct, love certainly won’t ever exist for people like him. It’s unbelievable he even managed to _think_ about it, or maybe it isn’t. Maybe he is growing up, like Bee told him he would. Like Nicky wishes he will. Like Neil... like Neil helped him do. It’s just a word, just a feeling. It’s not enough. Not for what he and Neil used to have, not for the kind of understanding between them, the kind of complicity and -and he needs to fucking stop. He didn’t just spend a month doing whatever Nicky ordered him to do just to go back to square one. He is _moving_ _on_ , thank you Bee. He also feels a bit like one of those teenagers he used to see in movies, the fact that he never got to be one makes the whole process a bit more enticing. Still, even once he’s back in his feet, even while he’s moving on, he can’t let go of that phone call. He can’t let go of this feeling in his gut, dread.

And then there’s Kevin. Kevin who is acting stranger and stranger by the day, Kevin who’s behaving exactly like he did when he ran to them after Austin: like a jumpy, threatened animal. Andrew has had enough.

“What’s wrong with you?” He asks when they’re alone, just sitting in the living room doing nothing. Well, not exactly nothing since Kevin has been pestering him about letting him in on a few of his potential new songs. That is pretty much the only thing that confirms this Kevin is the real Kevin Day and has not been replaced by a robot. But then Kevin jumps at his words, his fingers sliding over the strings of his guitar, sound screeching and fading.

“Nothing’s wrong with me.” Ha says. He _lies_. Andrew fights the urge to roll his eyes, someone so fucking terrible at lying shouldn’t be allowed the chance.

“We have a deal.” Reminds him Andrew.

“Yes, and?”

“And I can’t protect you if you don’t tell me the truth.”

It’s simple as that, really. It’s not like Andrew cares about whatever is plaguing Kevin, not unless it might be a threat to his Monsters and, this time, it feels like it might be one. Kevin keeps quiet for a while, indecision and fear alternate on his face so fast Andrew finds it hard to keep up. Oh, this will be good. This will make Andrew want to rip off Kevin’s head.

“What did you do?” He insists.

“Nothing! I did nothing.”

And that, that means Kevin did something bad. That means he has been lying to Andrew. It takes him one look, one look and a hand threatening to reach under his armbands for Kevin to bolt to his feet.

“I’m the one who’s been protecting you, nothing more!”

That is something Andrew didn’t expect, it’s also something that punches an incredulous laugh out of him. He doesn’t need Kevin’s stupid protection or whatever it is that he thinks he’s doing. Andrew hasn’t needed anyone’s protection since he was fourteen and he certainly won’t start now, he is the one who does the protecting, he has based his whole new life on it. First Aaron, then Kevin, then... then he tired with Neil, but he didn’t accept. _I don’t need it, I’ve got that deal with the FBI._ Except that both of them knew that whatever Neil had been running from his whole life couldn’t be stopped by any kind of deal, except that now Andrew wishes he had insisted, just so he could take that fucking plane and ignore Neil’s ‘no’ for the sake of a promise.

“You have one second to start explaining.”

“I can’t.” Whines Kevin

“You will.”

Maybe it’s Andrew’s knives making an appearance, quick, almost fleeting. Maybe it’s the look in his eyes, that kind of maniac glee he used to experience on stage. Whatever the fuck it is that makes Kevin sing, Andrew doesn’t care. Andrew never, ever cares. Not for anything, not for anyone. Except, he does care for the words Kevin speaks next.

“It’s about Riko,” Riko. Of course it would be Riko, as if he already isn’t the source of Andrew’s every displeasure, “and Neil.”

Andrew doesn’t realise he’s thrown himself at Kevin, hands around his neck, pressing, until Nicky and Aaron drag him off of him. Until he’s standing in the middle of living room, breathing harsh and hands trembling with the effort to stay put. Kevin is on the floor, coughing and gasping for air, but Andrew couldn’t care less. It was instinct, it was a split-second response that made him want to choke the answers out of Kevin. Because he knows, he has always known what was happening to Neil and Andrew is ready to ignore their fucking deal. Not when he’s been lied to for so much time, not when Kevin _knew_ _all_ _along_.

“I didn’t.” He gasps, voice raspy. “I didn’t know until August.”

“What is it that you know, then? You better tell me right now or I’m going to bury my knife in your stomach.”

Kevin takes a few moments to breathe. It’s almost enough for Andrew to launch himself back at him, but in the end Kevin speaks up, just at the last moment.

“Riko has been sending me messages after that call you got from Neil, saying that if I didn’t get you to stop contacting him I’d better get there myself because he would need a new act. Because Neil would be dead.”

Andrew grips the end of the couch, hard. He needs something to anchor himself, something to hold on to while Kevin finishes explaining, because this isn’t all there is to this mess. Not even close.

“What else?” He grits out. Kevin swallows, opens his mouth just to close it again. He swallows, again.

“Neil isn’t who he says to be.”

Andrew laughs at that, humourless, cold.

“I know that, I know all about his life on the run and the deal with the FBI.”

“You don’t understand.” Shakes his head Kevin, “he is the son of the Butcher. The Butcher of Baltimore.”

Nicky gasps and everything slides into place, then. Those half truths about Neil’s father, those avoided questions, the topic that was always off limits. Neil’s reaction to Andrew’s knives, his face devoid of colour, his flinch. The Butcher of Baltimore, of course Andrew knows him. All America knows of him, of the disgusting, fucked up things he did. What Andrew knows as well is that he’s supposed to be in prison.

“He’s not.” Answers Kevin when Andrew tells him that. “Riko’s family got him out, somehow. I’m not surprised, you know music is just a side business for them, a façade. Riko needed a way to get Neil to sign with them, he’s been obsessed with him since he found out that he is Nathan Wesninski’s son, Nathaniel. You see, Nathaniel was promised to Riko, he was supposed to pay off some debt the Butcher had with the Moriyamas.”

It’s with closed eyes and through gritted teeth that Andrew admits: “I don’t understand.”

“The Butcher worked for them, he took care of people that needed to be taken care of and he did it well. I don’t know what happened, precisely, just that he got into some trouble and decided to sell his son off. Of course, at the time nobody knew Nathaniel could sing and that he could be used to make some good money. The idea was for him to become Riko’s whatever, friend, lover... pet.”

Andrew feels like throwing up.

“But that never happened.” Continues Kevin, “his mother took him and ran off, the rest you know. When the Butcher was arrested, I suppose that’s when Nathaniel made his deal with the FBI and became Neil Josten. I should have know, I should have recognised him with the hair and the eyes, he looks a lot like his father.”

Of course he couldn’t resist, of course Neil decided to play his music even if he knew who the Moriyamas were. That stubborn, passionate boy.

“And now?” Asks Andrew, because this explains a lot of things, but not what is going on in Europe. Kevin shrugs, he has the fucking nerve to shrug.

“I told you, Riko has been obsessing over Neil since he started hanging out with us and being photographed at concerts and stuff. Ichirou couldn’t care less about Nathaniel anymore, but Riko does and the only leverage he has over him is the Butcher.”

It all makes sense, somehow, it all does.

 _He said he wouldn’t be, that if I went with him they’d keep him away, but he’s back._  

_I don’t have a choice._

Andrew wants to kill Neil’s father, he wants rip off his head with his bare hands, he wants to choke Riko to death and he wants Neil back.

 _Dont come for me, it’s a no, Andrew_.

He doesn’t care about that stupid text, he doesn’t care about that ‘no’ -except, except he does care. Except Andrew can’t help but care. _It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t trust what I say,_  that’s what Neil told him, once. When he wanted to take him back, to stop all this nonsense and just be with him. He remembers thinking it was true, that Neil had earned his trust in ways nobody ever had. And now, now he still does. Now he can’t make himself move, his feet glued to the floor and the weight of that ‘no’ bearing down on him.

“We can’t do anything about that, Andrew.” Says Kevin, as if he knows anything about anything. “You know that as well, Neil refused help when he broke up with you and that’s it.”

“It’s not that easy.” Says Andrew, just to be contrary, just to say something and loosen this unbearable knot that has formed in his throat.

“But it’s always black and white with you.”

“Not this time, it isn’t.”

 ***

 _March_ _2018_

Andrew never thought it would be like this, he knew it would be hard, but not _this_ hard. He’s spent half of his life feeling bad, the other half not feeling at all. This is different, this -this longing burning inside him. If he could, he’d tear a hole through his chest and claw this feeling out. He doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want any of it or maybe he does. Maybe, deep down, he knows that good things come hand in hand with bad things. He can’t choose, he can’t hope to have just one. He has to deal with this and he gets to keep Neil. Fine. He’ll do it. He _is_ doing it. He just thought it would be easier, that’s all. He should have known better, things are never easy if you’re Andrew Minyard. Things are as hard as they can be, things bear down on his shoulders trying to get him to break. He makes it, though, he always makes it. Neil being so distant is different. The pressure isn’t on his shoulders, it’s straight on his chest. Sometimes it makes it hard to breathe, like when Neil doesn’t answer his calls, when he sends a quick message saying that he has stuff to do with Riko and he can’t talk. And then, then he calls Andrew back and there are too many times zones between them that the phone rings in vain. It’s frustrating, to say the least. But. But, there’s always a ‘but’ with Neil. But Neil shows up at their concert in Los Angeles, without saying a thing.

They spend the night awake, Andrew lets Neil touch him with no restrictions whatsoever. Neil doesn’t overstep. Andrew thinks he’s a fucking pipe dream. And then he leaves the next day. It’s ups and downs and and it’s gnawing at them, at Andrew. It’s why he calls Neil, when he’s in New York and he finally has some time on his hands and he stumbles upon a video of one of Neil’s gigs on Twitter. He watches it five times, one after the other because for a moment he thinks he can’t trust his eyes. Because on that small screen, on that grainy video, Neil is singing a vapid, meaningless pop song dressed in tight pants and a fucking crop top. His scars are visible. This isn’t Neil Josten.

“Hi.” He says, breathless, as if he ran to the phone. Andrew keeps quiet for a while, he doesn’t really know what to say. He doesn’t really know why he called him, even. What is he supposed to do, warn Neil about something he already knows is happening? He does, Andrew is sure about that. Neil isn’t stupid, he is well aware of the tactic Edgar Allen’s management has decided to adopt with him and, still, he lets them walk all over his opinions. It’s something Andrew can understand, it’s also something he would never do again.

“Andrew?”

“Yes.”

“Is something wrong?” Asks Neil, as if he doesn’t already fucking know. It’s infuriating, having to explain things with words, having to pretend this wouldn’t be easier if he could just see Neil’s face. If Neil could see Andrew’s. Words don’t come easily to him, unless they’re meant to be accompanied by a tune. So he says:

“Yes.”

Neil doesn’t speak, Andrew can hear his breathing on the other side of this stupid smartphone, thousands of miles away, countless missed calls and rushed goodbyes away. They were supposed to make this work and Andrew didn’t expect it to be so hard, but if he doesn’t get this out, he’s going to burst. Andrew is honest, he doesn’t lie, he isn’t afraid of saying what he means, so why is this so hard?

“Riko is taking liberties.” It’s not a question, but Andrew still expects an answer. Neil gives him one, like he always does. _I’m not your answer and you sure as fuck aren’t mine._  He had told him that, once, on the roof of whatever venue the Monsters had played at, when Neil still tasted like a pipe dream and his truths were still half-buried. 

“What do you mean?” _That_ is his stupid answer and Andrew -Andrew fucking hates this, he hates this more than he hates Neil himself, because he used to be able to read Andrew with a glance and know they can’t seem to understand each other. He tries a different approach.

“What happened to your songs?”

That finally gets to Neil, if the hitch in his breath is enough of a sign. So, Andrew persists.

“You didn’t tell me they threw your songs away like thrash and decided you should sing about sexy boys and sexy times.”

It would be funny if it wants so fucking tragic, the fact that Riko has Neil of all people sing about sex and being a ‘good boy’. Neil, who’s never known sex without Andrew, Neil who couldn’t care less about the act itself. Andrew’s not jealous, he’s angry. It’s the disrespect, it’s Neil presenting himself to the world as a person he simply isn’t. Losing his chance at showing what kind of star he really is, showing everyone what he’s only ever shown Andrew. His words and his voice and his clever fingers on a piano. His magic. Now, he’s nothing but a pretty boy with a reputation that doesn’t belong to him.

“That’s not what they did.” Spits Neil, all trembling voice and an angry tone. Good, he should be angry. He should be indignant. And if all that is directed at Andrew, well, he’s always been selfless, hasn’t he?

“It certainly looks like that.”

“Yes, well, it isn’t. It’s just for the first tour, and I can’t exactly tell Riko no.”

That, that is a bit of a punch in the gut. It kind of knocks the breath out of Andrew. The words out of Andrew. Of course, Neil realises it.

“I didn’t -it’s not what it sounds like.”

“Isn’t it? You’ve pretty much stopped complaining about him, a bit uncharacteristic huh?”

“What exactly are you implying, Andrew?”

The words come out of him blank, nothing but sound even as they punch their way out of his mouth. Even if it feels like they’re breaking skin and cutting his tongue.

“I’m saying it looks like you gave up. You do remember you used to sing about running away and dreaming of paradise, about expecting the sun to rise while lying under stormy skies, right?”

If it were anyone else speaking and hearing those words, it wouldn’t mean so much. For them, though, Andrew and Neil, Neil and Andrew -people who came into this world fighting and kicking and dug their way of the grave with bleeding hands -it’s a different story.

“Gave up on what, myself? Oh, Andrew, just like you’ve always done.”

Clever mouth. Silver tongue. Andrew sings about Neil’s feisty ways with the kind of fondness he can’t express unless he’s on a stage, he should have known better. He should have known that someday, somehow those knives would be directed at him and he should have prepared himself. For someone who has everything planned, someone who always has an ace up his sleeve, it’s just plain stupid to find himself so caught off guard by a few simple words. He can’t really change that, though, can he? So he hangs up.

Neil doesn’t call back immediately and it only makes Andrew hate him even more, for all the wrong reasons. Because Neil knows to let Andrew have his space, he knows he gets so overwhelmed sometimes that he only person he needs is himself. Fucking Neil Josten, fucking pipe dream. He isn’t supposed to exists, a person whose pieces fit right with Andrew’s is something he stopped wishing for at the age of thirteen. And then... and then. Neil Josten, professional liar, smart fucking mouth. There is this feeling in Andrew’s chest, this pressure, this burning and it hurts. Andrew is _hurting_ , just because of a few stupid words. Of course, the phone rings half a hour later, because Neil knows that even when Andrew needs nobody but himself, he likes the signs of a person close by. He likes feeling Neil beside him, his steady breathing, his blue, blue eyes on him. Even now, when he can feel only half of that, _hear_ _it_ , it’s enough.

“You always have a choice.” Says Andrew, at last.

“You already said that.”

“This time you don’t, right?” He laughs, dry and mocking. A bit hysteric, but that’s hardly noticeable to anybody but Andrew himself.

“You would be tired of me, if you had me all figured out already.” Andrew can hear the smile in Neil’s voice, a half-assed attempt at changing the topic. If it were any other situation, Andrew might even let him. This time, though, this time he doesn’t think he’d be able to forgive himself. Andrew doesn’t believe in regret, so he always has to make the right choice, do the right thing. There is no going back.

“You know what they’re doing to you.” He says, not a question.

“I do.”

“Say it, then.”

Neil huffs, annoyed. Sometimes he’s so much like a child that Andrew can’t stand it. Maybe it’s because he was never allowed to be one, maybe it’s just part of his personality, a counterbalancing trait.

“They are turning me into someone I’m not. It’s fine, I’ve been doing it my whole life.”

“Oh, Neil,” starts Andrew, “they aren’t doing just that. They’re blatantly sexualising you, selling you like a prostitute.”

A moment of silence, then, just a whisper, just because sometimes even Andrew Minyard needs to be vulnerable: “sex should be intimate.” 

This time, Neil doesn’t waste any time before replying in kind, all fire and venom.

“Well, that’s rich coming from you Andrew. You wrote a fucking song about it, people all over the world know how it feels to be inside me.”

Ouch.

“Do you think it’s the same thing?” Asks Andrew, voice low, dangerous. It’s one step, just one step in the wrong direction and they’re bound to fall. But Neil is a survivor.

“No, I’m -I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m saying this shit. It’s just that everything is too much, lately.”

Something in Andrew’s chest shifts, just a tad bit, just enough to make his muscles loosen slightly.

“ _Andrew_.” A whine, a prayer. “Everything is so wrong, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Andrew wants to hang up the phone, pack a bag and jump on the next plane to Berlin. A few months later, the feeling will still be there, the need to go and save the only person he’s ever let in. And now, just like he will a few months later, he restrains himself. Neil tells him not to come, he tells him that Riko won’t be happy with Andrew being there and distracting him.

“I don’t care about Riko.” He says.

“It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t trust what I say.”

Andrew wants to laugh, just like when he used to get high as a kite and jump on stage and smile so hard his face threatened to split in a half. _Trust_ _what_ _I_ _say_. Trust the words of a liar. It’s not the oxymoron that makes it funny, no, it’s the fact that he actually does. He trusts Neil, he has been doing that for a long time now. The realisation came far before this one messy phone call, but the feeling never fails to shake Andrew to his core. So, he doesn’t hang up and he doesn’t pack his shit and he doesn’t jump on the first plane to Berlin. He stays on the phone, right there in his apartment in New York. It’s empty and cold and still bears traces of Neil’s presence. A sweater thrown over the couch, a mug in the sink, a toothbrush in the bathroom. Andrew can’t make himself tidy it all up. It’s not their first fight, it won’t be their last.

 ***

 _October_ _2017_

The thing about sex with Neil is that it’s great. It’s new and it’s great. And Andrew doesn’t know what to think. The thing about sex with Neil is that it’s fucking comfortable and so hot that sometimes Andrew feels himself burst at the seams. It’s sacred, so true and wanted and begged for. It’s not perfect, because Andrew is who he is and Neil was a virgin before him, but Andrew never said he wanted it to be. He doesn’t, it wouldn’t make sense. It wouldn’t fit with them, their whatever it is that’s going on between him and Neil. So, it’s not perfect, but it’s _right_. Because when Andrew says no, Neil’s hands drop. Because when Andrew holds his wrists above his head and presses down, down, down, Neil keeps them right there.

Neil Josten is someone Andrew never thought would exist, let alone someone who Andrew gets to _have_. What Andrew doesn’t exactly like about sex with Neil is the kind of -sensations that come with it. Sometimes, he wishes it was nothing but an act. Carnal. Physical. But, well. He doesn’t really know how to explain it, Roland had been good with Andrew’s boundaries as well. Roland had been handsome, he’d had a hot body and an even hotter mouth. That boy in juvie had obeyed well, had kept his hands to himself and his pretty green eyes on Andrew. Still, none of them had this effect on him. None of them made him this fucking weak at the knees with nothing but a glance, one look from Neil and Andrew feels on fire, he wants to drop to his knees, he wants to make him feel good. After he allowed Neil to make Andrew feel good, too, that’s when the realisation hit. This is different. This is powerful and Andrew doesn’t like it when people hold power over him. Except. Except Neil doesn’t even realise the leverage he has on Andrew, except -even if he knew -Neil wouldn’t dare do a thing about it. And Andrew hates him. He hates him so much he could burst with it.

Sometimes, he feels like pouring it all out on Neil’s body, with pleasure and kisses and thrusts and licks and bites. Sometimes, when Neil’s in the mood, they like it a bit harder and a bit faster than usual. It’s kind of scary, what with everything Andrew had to endure, but there is a clear line between what they’re doing and what has been done to him. It’s in the way Neil’s body arches against him, wrists straining in their ropes, in the way he moans so unabashed and open, in the way Andrew can see consent and eagerness written all over his body and face and movements. _Its in the special way we fuck._ It’s exhilarating, balancing the power Neil has over him with this. Being in control. Giving so much even while he’s taking.

When it all feels like it’s too much, Andrew writes about it. There’s people on the internet, their fans, that write things about how Andrew is the only one who gets them, how his music saved their lives. It’s a completely foreign concept to him, being this beam of light and hope and what the fuck else for angry, angsty teenagers. He thinks they don’t know shit about him, about his songs, but it’s fine. They don’t have to, he doesn’t _need_ or want them to. They can interpret his words however they want to, Andrew doesn’t care because Andrew never lies. There’s this particular song, though, that will be pretty much impossible to misinterpret. He starts writing it one night at two in the morning, when Neil is fast asleep in his bed and they haven’t changed the sheets and their clothes are still thrown haphazardly on the floor. It’s just -sometimes Andrew feels like he’s dying. When he’s deep inside and Neil is looking at him in that way that makes him want to advert his own gaze, but he can’t. He can’t because he could never look away from him, not in that moment, not when everything feels like it’s so, so much. Andrew feels like dying, because there is no other way to explain it. Because the sensation is so intense that not even a fucking orgasm compares. So he writes just that, he writes:

_We’re sewn together_

_he’s born to mesmer_

_beside, astride him_

_I die inside him_  

And then,

_Its far too sacred_

_don’t ever fake it._

Because it is, it’s something so damn holy and if Andrew ever believed in a god he would imagine him to be just like Neil. Because it’s still pure, this thing they’re doing, despite the dirt and soil on Andrew’s hands and fucking soul, despite the black that Neil’s past is dipped in. Neil was supposed to be his space monkey, another try, another sacrifice. Maybe he is, maybe he’s not.

Sometimes Neil and him do this thing where Andrew puts on a cap and glasses, wears his larger, baggier hoody and they both take the metro to this one bar in Brooklyn. Andrew fucking hates the trip, he misses his Maserati more and more with every tiny microbe that penetrates his skin. But. But a Maserati is far too flashy and the last thing he wants is for people to find out where he spends his (best) Wednesday nights. Eden’s is a dingy pub with dirty floors, wet tables and the best alcohol in the city. It’s also a place where forty to sixty years-old, country music enthusiasts host an open mic night as an excuse to get sloshed and end up shouting along to Sweet fucking Home Alabama. They know Andrew and Neil here, but they don’t really know who Andrew is, alternative rock is not exactly their thing. Which is why Neil and him do what they do: take the metro to Eden’s and wait for everybody to get drunk before performing on that far too small, too unequipped stage. The people there are quite fond of them, if Andrew says so. They like those two boys who play at being rockstars singing their shitty songs, they hope they’ll make it one day, maybe they could be a duo. One of them even gifted Andrew a pin for his guitar strap, it says ‘goth midget’. It’s customised, he says. The thing is, Andrew has kind of a problem with men from the age of forty up, and the way Neil flinched when he first brought him there told him Andrew is not the only one with a few issues. The thing is, there is no other stage he feels more comfortable on. Maybe it’s the fact that when he first came here, Mike had brought his six years-old twins along and nobody dared drink more than they could handle. Maybe it’s the fact that Roland is always behind the bar, some kind of reference point even if Andrew doesn’t blow him in the back room anymore. Whatever the reason is, Andrew likes it here. Andrew likes the fact that he can get on stage and nobody knows the words to his songs, he likes the fact that there are no phones pointed at him. He likes that he can sing whatever the fuck he wants to.

It’s here at Eden’s that he sings Space Monkey for the first time, and he sings it for Neil. It’s the first song he wrote about him, an _entire_ song and not just a few verses, a few words. He walks on that stage and takes a sit at the stool. The lights here aren’t hot, the people here aren’t screaming his name. Everyone is quiet, Neil is standing right there is front of him with a stupid glass of soda and a smile far too intimate for the circumstances. Andrew’s half drunk, he likes this too. The fact that he can let go, just a little bit, just enough to let himself breathe. There’s this buzzing in his hands and his throat and his chest. The strings under his fingers are rough and familiar. He looks at Neil and sees him underneath his body, all languid and flushed and fucking beautiful.

_Space monkey in the place to be_

_with a chemical peel and a picture of Mary_

_out on a limb in the carnival of me_

_raising the temperature one hundred degrees._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Jesus I’m so sorry everyone

_September_ _2018_

Andrew is someone who has always prided himself for being clear, straight and forward. His thought process is nothing but consequential and, on September 2018, after choking some answers out of Kevin Day, it goes like this:

Andrew, for the umpteenth time, thinks about buying a flight to Europe;

Andrew, for the umpteenth time, is reminded of Neil’s no;

And Andrew, for the first time in what seems like forever, is torn between two choices.

In hindsight, he will know the choice wasn’t really one, he will know that as much as Neil had come to mean everything, _everything_ , he would have never compromised himself. It was a no, Andrew could deal with it. Except this time, after flying back to New York and trashing his flat and breaking his guitar and punching a hole in the wall, he wants to break his own rules. What is the right thing to do? Andrew Minyard doesn’t know right, he knows survival and he knows revenge. Lately, he’s starting to think he might know love as well. He isn’t stupid, though, he knows that acting without a care, without a plan, might make this whole thing ten times worse. He knows that barging in Europe alone and finding himself in a nest of criminals won’t help Neil. He can fight his way out of most situations, but even he has to admit that a room full of Yakuza members might be a bit too much. The thing is, he doesn’t even have to. He never offered Neil his protection, or -well, he did. He did offer and that stupid pipe dream turned him down with a look of adoration that almost managed to make Andrew blush. He can’t choose. Andrew, who has always prided himself for being clear, straight and forward, can’t choose.

So, he finds himself on the edge of another downward spiral, one step away from falling back into the mechanics of a ‘bad period’, when he gets the news. From Kevin Day himself. What a joke. The news entail a certain blue-eyed pop-star being back in the States, needless to say, Andrew has a phone in hand in a matter of seconds. Needless to say, Neil doesn’t answer. Not the first, not the second, not the third time. Not the fifteenth. Not the twentieth. Andrew is either going to go crazy or show up at his hotel room. Of course, the press leaked his location right away, the fact that international pop sensation Neil Josten and his alleged boyfriend Riko Moriyama are back stateside earlier than expected is nothing short of a scoop. Andrew, though, stays put. He is back to square one and he needs to move forward, he needs it. For himself, for once, he wants to think about himself first. Bee would be proud, at least. It only took him four years to get to this point. This choice really is a choice, screw hindsight, and he has to be the one to make it. Except, the call comes first.

For a fleeting moment, Andrew thinks about not answering. He is tired of talking to a phone. He is tired of playing for himself. He is tired of sleeping with ghosts.

“Neil.”

(He answers, because he always does, because Neil feels a lot like the exception to many, many things in his life.)

“Meet me at the Plaza, the rooftop.”

It takes an imaginable exercise in self-restraint to grit out: “when?”

“Tonight,” a pause “eleven.” And then, Neil hangs up.

That night, at eleven sharp, Andrew takes the stairs to the rooftop of the Plaza, he kind of hates the fact that this is the place Neil decided on. That it is yet another rooftop, but this time it might ruin everything. Andrew remembers countless words and kisses exchanged on rooftops, he remembers hands wandering and this particular kind of hard won honesty that never failed to make something in his chest squeeze. Now, he has a feeling all those memories will be shadowed by this one night, and it won’t be pretty. When he finds him, Neil is sitting as close to the edge as he can get, Andrew swallows. It’s not like he wasn’t the one who used to do exactly that, challenge himself and yell a big, bold fuck off to his fears. The fact that Neil picked up on his habits makes him angry. He walks to him anyway, because he can’t help himself, because he can’t keep away from him after all this time. The last time he saw him, flesh and blood, and touched him, scarred skin and dead eyes, it ended in a break up. Neil, though, Neil always looks the same and Andrew’s heart is a painful traitor in his chest. As he sits next to him in silence, Andrew has the oddest feeling, like they went back in time. Like this is the night they met and he is about to tell Neil what a big mouth he has. Like they have a chance at changing it all and making it -different. He can’t say better, because people like them don’t get to make things better. This is the best they get, if he could go back in time Andrew should probably stop it all. Erase Neil from his life like that one movie. He doesn’t think he would be able to.

“You came.”

Neil, beside him, is beautiful in a moonlit, neon lit kind of way. The city mirrored in his eyes and hair and body. There is a bruise on his neck.

“I never go back on my promises.”

Neil smiles, a sad twitch of his lips. Andrew doesn’t recognise him, this ghost, this shell. He wants to rattle him, to take him by the shoulders and shake, shake until his eyes light up once again. Of course, he doesn’t. What he does instead is say:

“I know about your father. I know about the Moriyamas.”

Neil stills. His whole body goes rigid, those long, pianist fingers dig into his thigh. He still doesn’t look at Andrew.

“How?”

“How what?”

Now, he does turn around. Neil is angry, Andrew can tell from the shape of his eyes, from the furrowed brows and the thinned lips.

“Who told you?” He grits out, he would snarl if he was capable of it. Andrew keeps calm, like he always does. Like Neil once told him made him feel safe. A rock, he’d called Andrew, strong and steady and just _there_.

“Kevin, apparently he had an illumination after our last phone call. He remembers you.”

Neil’s breath hitches, it turns into a cough when he tries to swallow it down. Like he ever could. Like he could ever repress his emotions. No, Neil is fire, he is fire and spite and someone tried to beat it out of him and didn’t succeed.

“Well,” he says, when he’s back to himself, “now you understand.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do! I care, I care about you wether you want to hear it or not. My father, the Moriyamas... these people stop at nothing. You are too- you are too important. It’s why I had to let you go.”

All these words, all these words only serve to make Andrew angrier. They swim and whirl in his brain and he wants to smash them all away. Of course this is what Neil thinks, of course he would do everything by himself. He is nothing but a martyr, he has always been, and now Andrew wants to punch him in the face.

“I could have handled all of it. Don’t you know me, Neil? I still can.”

“You shouldn’t have to. I won’t let you.”

And that’s infuriating, more than. Does Neil really think that Andrew won’t argue, that he won’t haul Neil over his shoulders and take him back home if he has to? Home. Home is that flat in New York, with its floor to ceiling windows and Neil’s nose pressed against the glass. An image flashes through Andrew’s mind, the memory of a key and big, blue eyes so wide and shocked Andrew almost laughed. _I might not always be home when you get back. Andrew- Hush, keep them and shut up._

“I’m not going to let you go back to them and get yourself killed.”

“They won’t kill me, I’m making them too much money. My father -well, he might have his fun but he can’t do any lasting damage. I’m as safe as I can be.”

“I don’t believe you.”

It is so clear that he’s lying, for someone who has spent his whole life hiding the truth Neil is much too transparent right now. Maybe he isn’t, maybe he only is to Andrew. The thought stirs something in his stomach. And, well, Neil gets it. He understands that _Andrew_ understands. Because they have a connection, they’ve had this stupid connection since the beginning and Andrew couldn’t bring himself to deny it then, let alone now. After everything.

“Look,” sighs Neil, a hand in his hair, “I have a plan, but you’re not a part of it.”

“Make me one.”

“No, I won’t. It’s too dangerous and I won’t risk it.”

And Andrew... Andrew is tired of talking to a phone, he is tired of playing for himself, he is tired of sleeping with ghosts. Andrew is tired of being kept in the dark. He has never been one to give up, never. This time, though, this time he has to think about himself. This time, he _wants_ to think about himself. Silence stretches, thin and precarious.

“One last time, Neil.” He says. It feels final, it feels dooming. “Yes or no?”

Neil, Neil closes his eyes. Time feels like a broken watch as they sit there, New York at their feet. A promise, a future Andrew still doesn’t know if they could have. He will, soon, in a matter of seconds. Just an answer, one syllable.

“No.”

And so, it is done.

The last week of September, after that night, feels like being fifteen all over again. It is as slow as it can get. It is going through the motions, answering Nicky’s calls and not saying a word. His apartment is still a mess, he hasn’t even tried to clean it up, he hasn’t even tried to call someone to clean it up. It makes his skin itch, the thought of someone entering his flat, his safe place. Of someone touching all of his things and those fucking memories littered all across it. Neil by the window and Neil on the couch and Neil at the table. Neil by the library and Neil in his bed and Neil under the shower. It really is over, this time. Back in May, there was this half hearted hope in Andrew’s chest, this remnant, tiny and fragile. But it was there. Because he knew there was more to Neil’s story, he knew that wasn’t completely his choice. This time, though, is different. Because this time was an ultimatum, it was now or never and Neil chose never. Andrew can’t insist, it would be like slicing up his arms once again. Like going back a thousand steps. It kind of already feels like that, what with this apathy settling over him like a blanket. It happened the last time as well, but he picked himself up. He got back on his feet. Now, though, now he doesn’t think he can.

He wants to, though, for once in his life he _wants_. He has become used to feeling, all these months both with Neil and without him. He is more than this, he can get himself back. That person he has become, that person he has worked so fucking hard to become despite everything. Despite the world being against him every step of the way, even now, the world kicking him in the gut one last time. So, fuck it. Fuck it all, fuck his past and fuck his future. Andrew isn’t anyone’s puppet, he doesn’t let himself be swept away with the tide. He fucking swims right back to shore. Because Andrew has been alone all his life and he can do this alone as well. He doesn’t have to, no, but he wants to. So, what he will do, one last giant ‘fuck you’ to the world, is step on that stage and feel. The realisation comes on September thirtieth, one day before Madison Square Garden. Andrew couldn’t care less, he makes his way to the studio without a look back, the spare key Wymack gave him all those years ago finally finding some purpose. He makes a call and, half a hour later, finds himself surrounded by his Monsters, looking sleepy and rumpled and confused.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “we’re playing Exit Wounds.”

Nicky, his usual dramatic self, gasps.

“What? I thought we were play-“

“Did I stutter?”

There is a moment of silence, Aaron and Nicky staring at each other and then at Andrew himself in horror. He knows it’s a risk they’re taking, a new song, one night to execute it perfectly and Madison Square Garden. He doesn’t owe them any explanation. And then there’s Kevin. Kevin who gives him the strangest look of all, and then he smiles. And then he says:

“We better start rehearsing, we have twelve hours.”

Aaron and Nicky’s protests are ignored as Andrew takes the crumbled piece of paper out of his pocket. It’s a new one, the first he let burn in his yard along with the memory of Neil’s panic attack. This time, he’s setting his words free.

“The least you can do is read it.” Snaps Aaron. Andrew raises a brow, the concern is not appreciated, but his brother is right. So, he clears his throat.

“ _In the arms of another who doesn’t mean anything to you_

_there’s nothing much to discover_

_does he shake, does he shiver as he sidles up to you?_

_Like I did, in my time._

_And at night, under covers, as he’s sliding into you_

_does it set your sweat on fire?_

_If I could, I would hover as he’s making love to you_

_make it rain as I cry._

_Want you so bad I can taste it_

_but you’re nowhere to be found_

_I’ll take a drug to replace it_

_or put me in the ground._ ”

***

 _May_ _2018_

Neil shows up in the middle of the night. He has a key for this particular reason, a key Andrew gave him because he needed yet another anchor. Because he could see it clearly, the ship sinking under the weight of their fights and the distance and life on the road. How stupid of him, to think it would be enough. Another tie to keep them together, another tie that would snap in just a few weeks. Because Neil shows up in the middle of the night and proceeds to break Andrew so thoroughly that it will take him months to realise half the things he said were a lie. To remember Neil Josten is exactly that, a liar. He finds him in the kitchen, the lights are off, the moon isn’t full outside. He is nothing but shadows, a glass of water in his hands and no suitcase whatsoever. That is the first sign. When Andrew steps into the room, Neil doesn’t look at him. His eyes stay focused on the water, watching it swirl as he moves the glass form left to right. Left, right. Left, right.

“What did you do?” Asks Andrew, because something is wrong and that’s the first thing that comes to his mind. Neil looks up, then, and Andrew hates that he can’t see the look in his eyes, not when it’s so dark.

“Nothing,” he says, tone even, “yet.”

Dread pools in the pit of Andrew’s stomach, something is very, very wrong. He doesn’t turn the lights on, because he doesn’t really know what to say and maybe it will be easier like this. In the dark. That’s a first. Neil looks like shit, in an old sweater and torn jeans, bags under his eyes and an expression so blank it’s indecipherable.

“What are you going to do, then?” Asks Andrew, again. He knows, of course he does. It’s clear and it was somewhat expected. Andrew knows, of course he does, that doesn’t mean he’ll make it any easier. Neil doesn’t answer right away, he shifts his gaze to Andrew’s chin instead of his eyes and he either spits it out or Andrew will rip the words out of him. Do it. Say it.

“I’m going to leave you.”

It’s nothing Andrew didn’t expect, it still hits him like a truck. A deep breath, two.

“Why?”

It’s the only thing he can do, trying to understand. This isn’t right because this isn’t Neil, because Andrew _knows_ Neil and he wouldn’t do this. They fight, they clear things out. They fight, Neil flies to the States and they makes things right again. And they make love. And they keep on, strong and healthy and this isn’t something Neil would do. He is a boy who has run away his whole life, he has found stability with Andrew, he told him that himself. He wouldn’t throw it all away like this. He wouldn’t, would he? Maybe it’s not enough, not anymore. Maybe it’s not worth all of the longing and the fights and the calls.

“Because-” Neil stops himself short, a pause, hesitation. He hesitates and Andrew’s chest feels a tad bit lighter, only to be crushed under the weight of Neil’s next words. Just a few seconds later, just a few. Damn. Seconds.

“Because you’re not what I need anymore.” There it is. “You’re not as strong as you used to be, you never were, actually, I was just blind. How can I rely on you when you don’t know how to keep yourself standing?”

He says nothing, of course, what could he even say? In a way, Neil is right. All that therapy, all those years spent turning himself inside out and, still, it only takes him a few words to doubt himself. To find a weak spot, bruised skin to prod and poke until it darkens even more. Did he ever think he could be the right person for Neil, did he ever? Not really, not when he knows he is not right for anybody at all. No matter what Bee says, what Nicky says, they don’t know who Andrew really is. Only _he_ knows himself, what it’s like to be inside Andrew Minyard’s head, inside his whole body. And maybe he never thought he’d be enough, but he thought he’d be something. He thought -fuck, he thought of all these jagged edges he and Neil are made of, at least some could fit together.

Neil doesn’t know what to do with his silence, so he continues. Undaunted.

“I mean, I don’t even know why it took me so long to realise that. Someone who is so scared they might not have a reason left to live could never be enough. Not for me, not for anyone else.”

It’s this particular kind of cruelty that doesn’t sound right, that makes all of the red flags in Andrew’s head rise. Because Neil might be a lot of things, he might be a runner, he might be scared, mouthy, a liar. He might be a lot of things, but he’s not cruel. Andrew knows cruel.

“Tell me something true.” He says, then. One last chance. _Take it, take it, take it._  It is a bit of a joke that Neil should look this beautiful tonight, with the lights still off and the silvery glow of the moon reflecting on half of his face. His skin ivory, one eye a blue so icy it seems white, the other hidden by the shadow of his own features. Half angel, half demon. And Andrew, Andrew should have known better. For a split second, just a split second, his mask of stone cracks. At least, Andrew thinks it does, after, he won’t really remember. Another joke. He’s been remembering every single detail of each of his worse times since forever, but this... this will be nothing but grey and static.

“I don’t care about you anymore.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I don’t want you anymore.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I never did! I never did, you were an experiment and you didn’t work and now I can’t pretend anymore.”

So, Andrew looks at him. One last time. At the way his mouth trembles just so, at the way his eyes are filled with unspilled tears. Andrew is merciful, and he will spare him this.

“Get out.”

***

 _July_ _2017_

Andrew steps on stage with a full on smile, the crowd chanting their names and the lights pulsating red and blue. Today won’t be different, it’s just a stupid festival with the same stupid people who like his songs. It’s just a stupid stage and a stupid crowd, and in that stupid crowd there’s someone new. Andrew didn’t invite him, not really, or maybe he did. ‘We’re playing Sonic Festival, it’s near Palmetto’ he’d said, never mind the fact that Neil lives in that exact city. He hasn’t seen him, he’s been scanning the crowd since he picked up his microphone, but it’s almost impossible to find someone in a crowd so big. Maybe he hasn’t come -probably, he probably hasn’t come. Whatever, it’s not like Andrew cares. They’ve been calling each other in the past month, since that party, because apparently Neil doesn’t do texting. It’s so fucking stupid, Andrew hates him. So what? What if he’s become accustomed to the sound of Neil’s voice, what if he locks himself up in his room when it’s their scheduled time, so that he doesn’t miss any single nuance in Neil’s tone? Scheduled, because sometimes Neil will call him for a total of ten seconds in the morning, telling him when he’ll be free for their chat. Jesus.

They’re playing Meds first, as they always do. It’s far too easy to forget about Neil’s absence with the weight of a microphone between his hands and the scratch of it over his lips. The crowd is singing, shouting Andrew’s lyrics back at him with every ounce of voice they have, if Andrew were capable of coherency in times like this, he’d think this might be an empowering sensation, watching a sea of people moving in synch, feeling their eyes on him in a way that he surprisingly doesn’t mind. The floor vibrating under the basses of their music, Andrew’s Monsters sweaty and flushed and high on this feeling. Except, Andrew doesn’t feel any of it. What he feels is something else, something synthetic and amplified and _fake_. He’s going a hundred miles per hour and everything is blurred, jumping from one song to another with a smile that gets bigger and bigger until -until he sees him.

He’s right there, in the first row. He’s been there for the whole time and Andrew didn’t even notice, but now...now that he has finally seen him, he can’t look away. He stands out, like he always does, like he always wishes he didn’t. With his hair sweaty and plastered to his forehead, red curls almost as wild as his wicked tongue. With his eyes alight and burning and staring right into Andrew’s. It’s a rush of _something_ shooting up Andrew’s back and then he sees the way Neil is looking at him and he smiles even bigger. Oh, he’s worried, poor Neil. Too bad it’s none of his business. The rush gets faster and faster, higher and higher as he sings _I was confused by the birds and the bees, forgetting if I meant it._  Oh no, he didn’t forget to take his meds, how could he ever? It’s his one last thread, train, hope, what-the-fuck-ever. He’s hanging onto the high with slippery fingers, jumping on stage with a mind that bears no thoughts or worries. Or maybe it does. But, like all good things, this one too must end.

“Thank you for having us, Palmetto.”

Oh Kevin, perfect rockstar. Perfect entertainer. The crowd goes kind of wild at that, but it’s just a matter of seconds before they start chanting Andrew’s name like a fucking prayer. Like he’s an answer, like he’s some sort of god and he might as well be. He feels like one, when he’s like this, when he speaks what’s on his mind and has no brain to mouth filter. He should hate it, he does hate it, but recognises it as the necessity it is. He can’t do without, or maybe he does. Better not find out.

“I hate all of you.” Shouts Andrew into the mic before getting the fuck off the stage. There is this strange feeling buzzing under his skin, he isn’t far too gone not to be able to recognise its nature. It’s arousal, plain and simple. Because Neil, down there, sweaty and hyped and singing Andrew’s damn song... well, he looked like he came out of a wet dream. He wants to take him backstage and throw him against a wall and drag his mouth all over him. He will have to deal with this sooner or later, for now the only thing he can do is think of the crash that’s about to hit him and the game is done. Except Neil is there, backstage. Of course he is, Andrew has invited him. Why the fuck would he do something like that, right now he has no clue. But Neil is there and up close he’s even more beautiful. Leaning onto the wall, ripped jeans, a Stone Roses t-shirt and fishnet sleeves. Andrew almost has a stroke.

“And here he is.” Smiles Andrew, big and artificial and kind of scary, he hopes. “That’s very punk rock.”

Neil laughs.

“I was told this is what you wear at a festival like Sonic.”

“Who would lie so blatantly to you?” Gasp Andrew, all exaggeration and concern. He can’t exactly control himself. Neil laughs again, though, as if Andrew is _funny_ , but his expression dims in a matter of seconds. That look is back, that look from before, that look Andrew has seen on oh so many others before. Except Neil’s is kind of different, it lacks the pity, it lacks the hidden fear. It’s just, what, concern? Disappointment? Like Andrew cares. He shoves past him, shoulder against shoulder, a small fire he has to extinguish before it’s too late, and makes his way to the first chair he sees. Here we go, just a few moments and the crash will kick in.

“Why do you do this?”

It’s Neil, right in front of him because he can’t get a damn clue. Or maybe Andrew isn’t giving any, maybe. He laughs, then, just because it’s one of his last until the next concert.

“I’m a rockstar.” Says Andrew and smiles, smiles, smiles. Neil’s nose scrunches up, Andrew needs to close his eyes.

“Your drugs stopped being mandatory more than a year ago.”

This one goes straight for the jugular, doesn’t he?

“Maybe I like the high.”

“You said you didn’t.”

“I said no such thing.”

Neil rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t look annoyed. Frustrated, maybe, with his pretty lips turned down and his fishnet-clad arms crossed.

“You don’t lie.”

And Andrew doesn’t get it, he doesn’t get why this boy he met just two months ago is so invested in him. Nobody ever was, or, well, they were, but for the wrong reasons. This behaviour is supposed to raise red flags, it’s supposed to make Andrew want to punch him in the face. Neil Josten, though, is one of a kind. He is an enigma and Andrew is going to solve him.

“A truth for a truth.” He says, the words stumbling out of his mouth without permission. Neil hesitates, just for a second, but it’s enough to make Andrew doubt himself. He doesn’t believe in regret; unfortunately, he does believe in insecurity. And then Neil nods, slow and wary, but he nods.

“Say it, yes or no?” It’s their first, their first ‘yes or no’ and later Andrew will struggle to remember every other one except for their last.

“Yes. But I’m going first.”

And so Andrew laughs, what else can he do? On a precarious line between high and rock bottom, Neil Josten talking shit in front of him and hundreds of fans still chanting his name outside, he gives in without arguing. Of course, what it really is, is a test.

“Why do you still take your meds on stage?”

Andrew doesn’t have to think about the answer, he’s known it since Wymack agreed to find a way to get him off his drugs and then threw the Monsters on an empty stage to look for something Andrew isn’t sure he’s found yet. Or maybe he has, maybe every person singing Andrew’s words back at him has. That’s not the point, though. The point is that standing on that stage, imagining his future because, contrary to popular belief, Andrew is human like anybody else, the crippling anxiety that not even this would be enough hit him so hard he had to step backstage.

“Because,” he says, smile still in place, “this stupid band is my one last reason.”

Neil’s brows furrow, he stands there all confused and pouting and someone should tell him he’s not allowed that. Andrew sighs and rolls his eyes.

“You’ve seen me off my meds.” A statement, because it is. A hint, either Neil gets it or they’re done.

“I like you better off your meds.” That’s what Neil says, that’s what Neil fucking Josten says as if he has the right. As if he can blurt out shit like that and act as if he doesn’t know what he’s doing to Andrew. He doesn’t, that’s the thing, and Andrew _hates him hates him hates him._

“That’s not the point.” Neil concedes that with a nod. “I made a deal with Kevin, I’m not ready to see if he’ll keep his word.”

“You mean you’re scared, don’t you?”

Andrew laughs because Andrew doesn’t lie.

“Don’t say stupid things.”

“It’s not stupid.” Argues Neil with the kind of fire he always tries to extinguish, but never quite succeeds. “You are scared that reality won’t be enough.”

At that, Andrew gets up. He is done listening to any other world that comes out of Neil’s smart mouth. He is done being carved open like this, with no knife or pain or malice. With interest and intrigue and plain, simple curiosity. It _should_ feel like being carved open, it’s more like being gently torn apart. As he walks away, he hears his name being called. I still owe you one, says Neil. As if this whole thing wasn’t enough, as if he needs to pass even this test. Andrew needs a cigarette, or maybe six. He needs to get out and lose Josten and he doesn’t do any of that because, behind him, Neil says:

“If you could see yourself the way I see you on that stage, you wouldn’t even think about that. It’s a risk, but one that’s worth taking, I should know about that.”

Andrew recoils, or maybe it’s the crash kicking in. Whatever it is, it makes his chair screech against the floor and his mind run a hundred miles per hour. _The way I see you._  Andrew knows himself, knows his limits, knows how fucked in the head he is. He knows what he became, a monster, numb and stony. And then crazy, just sometimes, just because the fans like it. No, it’s not because of that. It’s his own choice, some way to keep himself from crushing that one last reason. That one last -what, hope? Whatever it is, it’s important. Vital. But the thought, the idea of stepping onstage sober and feeling his heart beat, his blood flow and his skin sweaty. Feeling the lights hot on his body, feeling the rough strings of his guitar under his fingers, the purr of their speakers. The thought stays there, in his mind, and it doesn’t go away.


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the last chapter! Thank you all so much for the amazing response, all the kudos and comments. This is one of the most self-indulgent stories I’ve ever written and I loved every second of it, I’m also pretty proud of how it turned out. Thank you again and enjoy!

_First_ _of_ _October_ _2018_

Their last note echoes. For a moment, before sound explodes, everyone is deadly quiet. It’s odd, it’s telling. Then, chaos. Andrew has never seen his fans like that, he watches from the stage, up there and so far away and yet, he’s never felt so close to them. These people don’t know him, but they know enough about him to be crying like their own heart is broken. They are, exceptionally- crying that is. And screaming. And chanting for the Monsters to play Exit Wounds one more time, but they won’t. Never again, not once. Nicky though, Nicky behind him plays those first few notes. _Ba_ - _dump_. And Kevin decides to follow through and, then, even Aaron. And Andrew doesn’t sing. He lets them please the crowd, but the crowd isn’t pleased. Not when they can’t hear the raw in his voice, the trembling of his words. Not when they can clearly see his face devoid of a smile, nothing like the Andrew Minyard he used to be at the beginning. Nothing like the Andrew Minyard he used to be a few months before. Still stony, still blank, yes, but different. They can read it on his face, his fans. He mocks them, most of the time, he doesn’t feel like mocking them now. So he sings, once again, just a small part, just to make them happy. Behind him, on the big screen, a camera is filming random people among the crowd. A girl, tears on her face, a bold, black ‘M’ painted on her cheeks, all smudged. A man, singing words he’s only learnt today. They did this, _Andrew_ did this. It’s not a rush, more like a revelation. It doesn’t make him feel anything except a tiny bit of understanding. It doesn’t help, that’s for sure. This big, all-consuming hole in his chest still gapes, still burns like it’s made of fire. He swallows and all those tears he might have spilled if he was anybody but Andrew Minyard are pushed back where they came from. He stands there and watches it all, Madison Square Garden crying for him, a true standing ovation. But things do end and this one does, too. He turns his back to them and, if possible, it sounds like the crowd starts screaming even louder. He doesn’t turn around, though, he marches off the stage and leaves even that one last bridge behind.

Backstage is chaos, a part of Andrew is terrified he might bump into Neil. It’s been a very long time since Andrew has felt fear outside of his nightmares, this unease settling in his stomach is certainly not welcomed. It also isn’t anything new. With his Monsters following behind him, he soaks up in the applause of every artist and manager and roadie. Andrew has never been one to care, let alone gloat, but this one concert was especially important and he would be lying if he said all this appreciation isn’t satisfying. Wymack is standing in his usual spot, by the door to the Monster’s changing room. There is a look on his face that Andrew has never seen before, some sort of mixture of pride and just plain sadness. Yeah, well, Andrew can relate.

“Good job out there.” He says. Behind Andrew, Kevin shifts uncomfortably. His time will come. Andrew nods resolutely at the same time as Nicky blurts out an energetic, high on post show adrenaline ‘thanks!’. Wymack isn’t alone, though. Dan Wilds stands tall on her high horse beside him, arms crossed and a raised brow. It’s not a good sign, because where Wilds is, Boyd is. And where Boyd is, Neil is usually close by. It takes Andrew less than a second to start making his way around them to lock himself up in his dressing room until this whole charade is over. He has to protect himself somehow. Wilds has other plans, though, what with the way her arm shoots up to block Andrew’s way. He raises a brow of his own, a warning.

“Relax.” She sighs, a fleeting look at the Monsters behind him, then at Wymack. “I just want to congratulate you, that was one hell of a show. I guess you -you’re not a monster after all.”

That is definitely enough to spur on Andrew’s departure, but Wilds isn’t done and her arm doesn’t drop. He is about to take out his knives, but she speaks up first. She should be careful is she doesn’t want to lose her tongue.

“Before you go, one piece of advice: stick around, there is something happening that you’ll want to see.”

And what the hell is that supposed to mean? Andrew doesn’t let himself think about it and this time, when he looks pointedly at her arm, Wilds drops it. She sighs, maybe disappointed, maybe a bit sad, Andrew couldn’t care less. No, he will do what he has to do and get the fuck out of this place. He wants to go home and go to bed and recover. He wants the fucking break he was promised before this whole charity thing came up.

“Maybe we should really stick around.” It’s Nicky, who else would it be? But Aaron and Kevin are standing right behind him, as if they’re backing him up, as if they’re on _his_ side. Ungrateful little shits. Andrew gives them all a look, one of his own, one of the scary ones, and starts packing up his stuff. Someone sighs, he pretends not to hear it.

It is time to leave, no matter what Dan said, no matter what his Monsters think. It is time to leave this all behind and finally, finally move on. Exit Wounds is out there, still ringing in the ears of his fans, in their hearts, he thinks. Exit Wounds will never be performed again and Andrew will never let himself be so vulnerable. A one time thing, much needed, but unrepeatable. He won’t be knocked off his feet again, not now that he knows how to allow himself to feel, not now that he knows giving his heart away doesn’t mean he should lose his own hold on it. It really is time to leave and Andrew won’t look back.

Except.

Except he does, one last time, when he hears his voice.

It comes from one of the screens backstage and it is a bit of a shock, after everything Andrew has promised himself. He can’t help it, can’t help turning around, following the sound until he can see his face. Right then and there, on a stupid, small screen. He looks small as well, Neil, standing in the middle of the giant stage. Alone. He doesn’t look like the pop sensation Riko made him out to be, he isn’t wearing those crop tops and vibrant colours and tight pants. He looks like Neil Josten, with his hair messy and his jeans and his ratty t-shirt. For a second, Andrew is baffled someone allowed him to climb onstage dressed like that. Then, he remembers how stubborn Neil can be.

“Hello.” Neil says into the mic and Andrew can’t make himself move, his feet are stuck to the floor while his heart is left completely un-fucking-hinged.

“I’m Neil Josten, maybe some of you don’t recognise me. Today I won’t play any of the songs you know, because they aren’t mine.”

The crowd _oohs_ and _aahs_ , some even boo. Andrew wants to punch them all in the face, but he can’t. Fucking. Move. Distantly, he is aware of Kevin, Aaron and Nicky standing behind him. Waiting. Waiting for what? For him to turn back around and leave, for him to scream, to burst, to punch a wall? He should be doing one of those things, it would be him, Andrew Minyard, a hundred percent. He doesn’t. He stays there, standing and watching and listening, because Neil, for once in his miserable life, is telling the truth. His mouth is irreparably stained red with lies, but right now he is telling the truth un front of twenty thousand people.

“What you’ll see and hear today is the real Neil Josten, but the song I’m about to play isn’t for you, it’s for someone I- someone I need. Someone I’ve always needed and lost.”

_Oh_ _no_.

“This is New York and it speaks more truthfully that I ever could,” he looks into the camera, then, “maybe you’ll give me one last chance.”

And so, Neil Josten sits at his piano and plays.

_If you were here beside me, instead of in New York_

_if the curve of you was curved on me_

_I’d tell you that I loved you, before I even knew you_

‘ _cause I loved the simple thought of you_

_If our hearts were never broken and there’s no joy in the mending_

_there’s so much this hurt can teach us both_

_and there’s distance and there’s silence, your words have never left me_

_they’re the prayer that I say every day._

Andrew blinks once, twice, and finds himself at the edge on the stage. His shoulder hurts from all the people he ran into, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t even feel the pain, not when Neil’s words simply don’t. Stop. Coming. Not when he can see him clearly now, sitting at his piano, his curls hanging in his face and his eyes closed. He opens them, in that exact moment, and Andrew is right there for him to see. He stutters, just once, so imperceptible that no one must have noticed. And he looks on and on and on, and Andrew can’t advert his own eyes. Hypnotised.

_Come on, come out, come here, come here_

_The lone neon lights and the ache of the ocean_

_and the fire that was starting to spark_

_I miss it all, from the love to the lightning_

_and the lack of it snaps me in two._

That hole in Andrew’s chest, it burns and it hurts harder than ever. Almost as if- almost as if it’s being stitched shut, but that isn’t possible. Andrew won’t let it happen, a song isn’t enough. Neil’s words, though, they do speak more truthfully than he ever could. And they explain and they admit and they flow, unbidden, unstoppable, from Neil’s heart to Andrew’s. A song isn’t enough, but maybe it could be a start.

_If you were e beside me, instead of in New York_  

_I’d tell you that it’s simple and it was only ever us_

_there is nowhere else that I belong_

_Just give me a sign, there’s an end with a beginning_

_to the quiet chaos driving me back_

_The lone neon lights and the warmth of the ocean_

_and the fire that was starting to go out._

The people love him, the song is over and everyone can finally know who Neil Josten really is. Andrew has always known about his talent, it doesn’t make the show any less impacting. It doesn’t make him any less emotional, as if Andrew Minyard could ever be _emotional_. And Neil- Jesus, Neildoesn’t say a damn thing, doesn’t even deign the crowd of a glance because he’s too busy standing up, his chair screeching, and running his way to Andrew. He is fast, always has been, and he is right there in front of him. Flesh and bones, not some sort of ethereal form like the one he took that last night on the rooftop of the Plaza. Red hair and blue eyes and an offer. Andrew doesn’t speak, the sound of the crowd is deafening.

“I know you won’t want to hear it, I know it’s too late, but I made it all okay. I am free of Riko and my father -my father -he’s dead.”

Neil is frantic, his words come out hurried and breathless. There are a few seconds where Andrew simply stares at him, deadly quiet. He should leave, Neil should be right, Andrew shouldn’t want to hear any of this. He does, though. Even after everything, he can’t let go.

“How?” He asks, and almost _sees_ Neil’s heart starting to beat wildly against his sternum.

“I did what I should have done a long time ago, I contacted my uncle even if I wasn’t supposed to. The deal I made with the FBI was pretty clear about that, my family in England is one of criminals as well but, well, my mother was Stuart’s little sister. When I told my uncle what my father had done, he didn’t hesitate. He took care of things and I guess he thought he owed her -my mum- for not ever helping her before. That’s why he doesn’t expect anything in return, that’s why I’m free.”

And that should be it, Andrew’s got his answers, it is time to leave. He can’t.

“You said you hope I’ll give you another chance.” He says. Neil adverts his eyes, he makes himself smaller. Andrew _hates_ it.

“I did. I-I know I’ve said terrible things and I kept you in the dark, but it’s not because I didn’t trust you. Hell, Andrew, you’re the only person I have ever trusted more than my mother. And I-I need you and I _want_ to need you.”

Andrew can’t speak, he should turn around and walk away, but, after all, Neil has always been able to prove him wrong.

“I’m a lot, I hurt you and then there’s this thing with my uncle... I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ll go, if you ask, if you want me to.”

And Andrew, Andrew looks at him and thinks about second chances and third and fourth, he thinks about hands stopping and a welcomed touch, he thinks about earnest eyes and feelings disguised as songs. He thinks about truths whispered in the dark and learning and growing and _trusting_. And he says:

“You’re not going anywhere.”


End file.
